


Heartbeat in the Brain

by Indybaggins



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anger, Angst, Blow Jobs, Dating, Desire, Food, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, Love Confessions, M/M, Major Illness, Polyamory, Romance, Sex, Sleeping Together, Terminal Illnesses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-25
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-11 04:47:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 44,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4421933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Indybaggins/pseuds/Indybaggins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-season two AU. With Sherlock gone and facing a bad diagnosis, John tries to kill himself. Mycroft intervenes, and as time goes on, they grow closer. Until Sherlock comes back of course... </p><p>A story about all the living people do when they’re dying, about trauma, food, comfort and joy. And love, when it’s complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (John)

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: The first scene deals with a suicide attempt, minor medical/bodily details throughout, mention of euthanasia, hospital scenes, serious illness without a cure.
> 
> Thanks go to Cherrytide for the beta and Brit-picking, Recently Folded for the medical details, and Jie_Jie for the last read-through, you are all wonderful! <3

 

 

John puts a tarp down. 

The plastic smells like long-forgotten holidays - chlorine and blow-up mattresses. Like some of Sherlock’s messier experiments. Like body bags in Afghanistan. 

He sets a kitchen chair on top of it, sits down, takes his shoes off and sets them to the side. Holds the heavy, comforting weight of his gun in his lap. 

Sherlock killed himself, too. 

Much more dramatic, that, jumping off a roof. John’s fine with the kitchen. The dull beige of his flat makes it seem expected, even. Vet, middle-aged, living alone. All that’s missing is a collection of empty bottles and dirty dishes in the sink. There aren’t any, he washed them. 

It’ll be a couple of days before his corpse smells up the small space and the neighbours complain. Before he’s expected at work again, and then a locksmith, the police - practical. Or maybe someone will hear the gunshot, it’s not impossible. He’ll have to make sure he doesn’t miss, but at this range, nothing will. 

John glances outside. It’s raining mildly, a grey, overcast day in April. A random day, eleven months after. 

It could be attributed to Sherlock’s death, but doesn’t have to be. 

He takes his gun, opens the chamber and checks. He’s checked before. It’s loaded. He raises it slowly, carefully controls the angle - _don’t cock this one up, Watson_ \- and presses the muzzle against his temple. Then doubts, he could put it in his mouth, instead. Or under his chin. He’s seen what this looks like when it goes wrong. His hand isn’t shaking at all, but he is sweating. 

_It’s not too late._ He can change his mind, but no. 

He’s not going to pull away at the last second, either. 

John’s stomach turns. Nerves, fight or flight, not entirely applicable here but he can’t tell his body to calm down now, can he? He breathes a long, controlled breath out. The room seems stark, somehow, the whites burning his eyes, the darks harsh, shadows multiplying.

He cocks the gun. 

Then he gulps another breath in, greedily, funny, how he wants to keep on going until the very end. He’s dizzy now, slightly nauseous, hyperventilating, he thinks. Maybe he should have had that bottle, but he wanted to do this sober, no room to regret this one, is there?

His finger is on the trigger. And still he takes one more breath, harsh, ragged in his chest. _Sherlock’s face_ , John sees it again - pale, thick blood matting his hair, dead - almost fondly, now. 

He is pressing the muzzle of the gun to his head hard enough that he can feel his heart thumping under the pressure of it, hear it thrum in his ears. The room is a haze around him, pulsating along with his heartbeat. Time to go. 

And then there’s a sound at the door. 

John’s almost convinced he’s imagining it, some last-ditch hallucination, a mental fail-safe, here to stop him when it matters. But he looks anyway, sees his lock turning, it’s being forced open. And once the door is opened and the woman who did it scuttles away, Mycroft fucking Holmes. In a soggy overcoat, drops of rain still caught on his shoulders. 

“John.” 

John lowers his gun into his lap, puts the safety back on, and leans it on his knee, his hand wrapped around it. He can hear his own voice, the solid edge to it. “Come to stop me?” 

Mycroft steps inside, and closes the door behind him. “I have heard about this morning’s doctor’s visit.” He says it carefully, like he’s afraid of what John’s reaction might be. 

‘Course he has. Medical confidentially goes out the window when a Holmes walks in. “There.” John nods to the kitchen table. 

Mycroft, still looking at him cautiously, walks around him, and takes the file. Opens it, and scans the words. 

He already knows what it says, John thinks, otherwise he wouldn’t be here. _Acute rhabdocytotic lymphoma._ One year survival rate - with treatment - eighty percent. Five years, thirty percent. There are options, the doctor said, _chances_ , but John knows what those are like. Mycroft can look for himself, make the same deductions, come to the same conclusion. He’s got nothing to hide. Death’s not a fancy, but the solution to a problem here. 

Maybe he’ll think it’s _neat_. Sherlock might have. 

When Mycroft’s done he turns towards him again, something annoyingly startled in his eyes. 

John meets his gaze. _Don’t need pity_. 

Mycroft couldn’t stop Sherlock either, could he? All the might of the British Empire, and see where it got him, he couldn’t stop his own brother from jumping off a roof. All that intellect and he didn’t know he was going to do it, all those cameras and still he wasn’t there. 

John hasn’t even seen Mycroft since the funeral. 

Mycroft swallows, harshly. “John, I can see how this news might press you to…” he politely glances at the gun instead of saying it, as if the words alone will make it into a reality. 

“Kill myself.” John says. He has no issue with it, he knows what he’s doing. “Yeah, it does, actually.” 

He raises the gun again. “So you might want to go now.” 

“John!” Mycroft looks disturbed, raises a hand but doesn’t come closer. “Please consider…” He’s trying to placate him, _talking down the wild animal_. 

John certainly didn’t plan to blow his head up in front of Sherlock’s brother, didn’t want to do that to anyone, although it would have some symmetry to Sherlock doing it in front of him, John thinks darkly. _Pay it forward._

Odd, he feels much clearer with someone in front of him. The room is in perfect focus, he’s attuned to every movement, every fast breath of Mycroft’s. John remembers Sherlock’s words, _don’t take your eyes off me_ , and he almost understands them, now. It’s better to do this looking at someone else. 

Even if that someone else is going to be scarred for life. 

Mycroft’s standing pressed against his kitchen counter, far enough back not to get anything on him, but still. “You don’t wanna see this. Trust me.” 

“You are right, I do not want to see you do this, John.” Mycroft sounds composed, still, either he’s playing at it or he thinks he really won’t do it. 

He might be surprised. 

”So leave.”

Mycroft looks at him, the gun, and then says as if he’s making a vital chess move, “There are things you do not know.” 

There’s a drop of rain rolling over Mycroft’s forehead, and John follows it. His hair is wet. _Forgot your umbrella, did you._

“About Sherlock, why he jumped.”

John laughs, hollowly. There are a lot of things he doesn’t know. He never was quite that clever, was he? Never was anything like Sherlock. 

“He’s alive.” 

_Don’t._ John cocks the gun. The sound is small but obvious in the quiet kitchen. 

Mycroft speaks on fast, at low volume, “He faked his death. Sherlock’s alive, John.” 

John knows it’s a lie. He _knows_ it is, but his finger on the trigger hesitates all the same. 

Mycroft’s eyes flicker over him, “I can prove it to you.” 

John doesn’t want to listen, but still, there’s a small surge of... He pulls the gun back from his head, “How?”

Mycroft takes a breath to answer, and then there’s a flash of something though the window, glass scattering...

... _bullet_ , John registers somewhere in the back of his mind... 

And then he’s down on the tarp, taking cover, wetly breathing in plastic. His hand is throbbing and hot, his ears are ringing. Mycroft steps over him, he’s talking to someone, _stand down_. 

And John feels the realisation of what just happened hit him like a kick in the chest: Mycroft stalled him for a sniper. And he _fell for it_. 

John scrambles up, the pain shooting though his hand is intense enough to white out the room momentarily, but he doesn’t care, just _throws himself_ over Mycroft, tackles him with his full weight behind it. Mycroft goes down, all coat and a startled sound, _arsehole, fucking..._ Fuck him, lying. Fuck him, even _daring_ to! 

Mycroft twists from under him before he can hit him. John tries to follow and _get him_ , but he can barely see through a sudden rush of dizziness. He stumbles, wants to get him, _hates_ him. He sinks against the kitchen cupboard instead, his adrenalin is running out, he can barely move. Shit. Something wet’s on his face. He’s shaking. “You’re lying.” 

His cheek is wet, his neck, his hand, his shoulder. He’s bleeding, John realises. His hand is... blood and bone. He cradles it to his chest. There’s glass and blood all over the kitchen. He can hear Mycroft breathing unevenly through the high whine in his ears, his clothes are in disarray, he’s splattered with blood. “No. I did not lie to you, Sherlock is alive.” 

“He’s alive?” John sits on his arse on the tarp and glass, and he’s shaking so hard his teeth are rattling. His voice sounds like he’s listening from far away, “He’s alive.” 

“Yes.” Mycroft awkwardly takes a tea towel, balls it, and comes close enough to press it against his head. “You are in shock, John.” 

_Do I need a blanket?_ John laughs, first a stilted, harsh breath. Then out loud, gasping laughs while Mycroft stares at him and the paramedics arrive to shine bright lights into his eyes. 

Isn’t that funny. 

 

-

 

John is propped half-upright in a hospital bed, uncomfortably swallowing down nausea. 

There’s no use in dying now, is there? 

His hand is in a cast, stabilising the compound fracture of his trigger finger and several fractures further up from when the sniper shot the gun out of his hand. He’s got five stitches and a heavy wad of padding on the side of his face from where his own bullet grazed him. His throat feels raw from throwing up repeatedly. Even his nose burns with every breath, but he’s angry enough that he barely feels it. He’s going to fester his anger and keep it all here, right here, until he can _punch Sherlock in the face_. 

The impact of it is still hitting him, actually, again and again. What it means to have been lied to so utterly and completely. To have been played with and destroyed for kicks. 

John remembers the gist of what Mycroft told him when they were waiting for the ambulance. Snipers on himself, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade, that Sherlock planned for months how to deal with Moriarty and fake his own death. The conspiracy to just let John grieve, let him feel grief so tangible it’s like a ragged rock in his throat, let him suffer, hollow out and die, just because _it’ll look good_. 

One word, that’s all he would have needed. One clue, one shred of hope, to keep on going. 

And none of them gave it to him. 

Mycroft wouldn’t even have told him, either. Just confessed to keep him alive long enough for the sniper to get a good shot, oh _charming_ , really.

John called Molly, found out she lied to him, too, for a full year. He hung up on her. 

Then Lestrade, who cursed a litany, thank fucking god. 

_Sherlock_. John wants to scream at him until his voice gives out. Wants to get his blood under his fingernails as he _hurts_ him, to hit him until his face, his fucking _face_ doesn’t look like his own anymore. Because maybe then he’ll have a clue, even a vague clue, of what it’s been like to be without him. 

What it’s been like to have lost him.

When he _loved him_. Not a little crush, or hero-worship, or something innocent like that, oh fuck no, but with a heavy, dark beat thrumming under his skin every time he so much as looked at him. The idea of fucking, _tearing his clothes off and licking a line down his chest_ , always on the back of his mind. And later, so much worse, the idea that just being around him was better than anything else. 

Sherlock, married to his work. 

Sherlock, the machine. 

Sherlock, so eager to leave him behind that he faked his own death, apparently. 

John’s already tired of the hospital walls, of the bed underneath his arse and the day-time TV. The sounds of squeaking wheels, the smells, ugh, the smells of the food trays. The chattering nurses. He wants to get out, although his flat won’t be any better. There’s not going to be any better than this for a while. 

It doesn’t matter, now. 

Sherlock. The fucking bastard. 

John swallows another wave of nausea. Eyes the cardboard basin he has for throwing up in. Mycroft offered to get word to Sherlock of what happened, to contact him, and tell him to come home. 

John lurches forward, grabs the basin and dry-heaves a couple of times, bile burning the back of his throat, but nothing comes out. 

He told him not to bother.

 

-

 

A week later, John’s standing on the Baker Street pavement, annoyed pedestrians circling around him, sounds of London traffic behind his back. He’s staring at the bricks of the building. He never gave his key back. He left, right after Sherlock… Grabbed what he needed, and moved into the first place he could find.

Oscillating on the pavement, must be a love affair - isn’t that what Sherlock once said? 

John snorts. Not that he still believes a single thing he remembers about the bastard, mind. 

The key is in his good hand, he’s rubbing his thumb over the little teeth like a talisman. He uses it, already warmed with his body heat now, and awkwardly turns the lock. 

Walking over the threshold is worse than visiting Sherlock’s grave was. The smell of the hallway, old house, Mrs. Hudson’s cooking, _Sherlock_ , somehow. _Home_ , and a thousand fucking memories hit him in the chest. 

Mrs. Hudson calls out to him. She sounded annoyed, on the phone, at not hearing from him in so long. But it shifts once she sees him, sees whatever is that is on his face. 

John follows her into her flat. 

He eats her slightly-stale biscuits and drinks her too-weak tea. Sees that she’s re-papered her kitchen walls and is tempted to ask the question of whether she did that because it reminded her of Sherlock, too. Whether her walls had some bit of his shadow in them. 

She talks around Sherlock’s name as if it’s to be avoided, but at the same time can’t help it. As if she can’t look at John and not think of him. _Sherlock_. John touches the thin, red line on his temple, right next to his eye, and rubs it. 

They go upstairs, into the tomb - and that’s what it is, a tomb for a man that’s still living. The stairs creak underneath his feet and John has suddenly, intensely, never hated someone as much in his entire life as sodding _Sherlock Holmes_. Doing this to all of them, leaving them all. 

Alone. 

It smells like dust. Damp, unlived in. 

Mrs. Hudson opens a curtain, and bright spikes of light fall into the room. Dust motes float in the air, and John looks at her and wonders how many years she would have needed to get rid of it all. Whether it would have been a lifetime before she’d stop mourning Sherlock. 

She is wincing and empathising, worried, “It’s serious, isn’t it?” She glances at the cast. “Not just your hand? You’re ill and that’s why you’re back?” 

“Yeah, actually, cancer.” 

She looks at him with widening eyes of compassion, so fuck it, John tells her the rest, too, “Sherlock’s alive, did you know?” 

“Oh, John!” Mrs. Hudson shakes her head in shock, blinks, then says, “That’s not funny!”

It’s not. If it’s anything, it’s not _funny_. “True though.”

John stands while she sinks into 221b’s sofa. He tunes out what she’s saying, stares out the windows, at the familiar street below. 

He walks into the kitchen, sees the awful fluorescent light and touches the green tiles, the counter still overflowing with Sherlock’s test tubes and burners. His favourite brand of tea. John runs his finger over the packet and feels the gentle scratch of dust. 

He sees the heaving book cases, the piles of magazines on the floor. He sees knives and dissected frogs and Sherlock’s music stand, and a million mundane memories and secrets of his own, too, somewhere in that mess. The books, papers, the _life_ , spread all over it still, just waiting under a fine layer of age to be resurrected. 

It can be a trade, John thinks grimly. He’ll come back here, and then Sherlock can take his place, the dance of 221b’s dead and dying. He looks at Mrs. Hudson, anger and disbelief turning uncomfortably on her face still, and says, “So... Mind if I move back in?” 

 

-

 

Molly comes by. She cries, silently, wipes away her tears on her sleeve and smiles sheepishly. 

John doesn’t forgive her, but he doesn’t hate her. He knows it’s all Sherlock, anyway. 

John eats on a dusty table, sleeps under dusty sheets, and sits while Mrs. Hudson cleans around him. She throws away Sherlock’s specimens and equipment now, tosses them into a rubbish bin. She goes into Sherlock’s room, strips his bed and opens the windows, hoovers vigorously. She throws away all of the digestives that are out of date, and angrily eats the others, biscuit after biscuit. 

John puts his feet on the table, over some of Sherlock’s books. 

Lestrade comes over and they get so drunk they’re loud; they open the windows and scream insults at the sky. Mrs. Hudson comes up at 3am in a flowery nightgown to complain, they pour her a brandy and then suddenly she’s crying, in wide, gasping gulps. Saying “Oh, John, dear.” and tries to hug him. 

John moves away from her grabbing arms but Lestrade takes his place and holds her. Tells her it’ll be fine. 

John has another drink, and doesn’t look at them. 

 

-

 

Another week, and more chemo. John’s sick. 

Tired. 

There’s an IV stand next to the sofa, now. 

There’s a bucket, one of Mrs. Hudson’s, orange and lap-sized, and John hates staring at the inside of that thing, _the smell of it_. Holding it between his hands is enough to make him gag, it’s a Pavlovian response at this point. 

There’s Mycroft, knocking on the door, letting himself in. “Hello, John.” The smell of his cologne alone makes John heave. 

“Go away.” 

“I had assumed you would want to know more details about Sherlock’s whereabouts?” Mycroft sounds prissy. John doesn’t give a shit. “He is in...”

John bends and grabs the bucket, his hands digging into its plastic sides. Mycroft moves back _fast_ , pulling a face - then continues, “He checked in with our mutual contact yesterday and he is now moving to the Pakistani border.” 

Sure, fine, sounds great, _if it’s even true_. If it’s not a lullaby, a story made up to keep him from trying to kill himself again. John doesn’t reply. The orange of the bucket seems to zone before his eyes. 

John can hear Mycroft move, the awkward rustle of his coat as he waits for him to ask questions, _is he safe, when will he be home, tell me everything_. 

John doesn’t ask a thing. 

Mycroft’s Sherlock’s brother. He’s stuck-up, he casually lied to him, he had someone shoot a gun out of his hand; he hates him. They don’t need to have a chat about Sherlock’s adventures while he’s trying not to vomit up bile. 

“Well.” Mycroft says after a moment, “I shall leave you to your bucket then, John.” 

And John has no idea what’s even _wrong_ with him, but he laughs at that, miserably, his stomach cramping and nausea rising, long after Mycroft’s left the doorway. _Yeah, leave me with the bucket._

Great fucking idea. 

 

-

 

John’s not losing his hair, nicely enough, but his nails are crap, tearing and breaking. His skin’s sallow and weird and he looks a good decade older now whenever he looks in the mirror. He’s decided to grow a beard for the hell of it, except that it’s coming in grey. 

Molly says that it makes him look dignified. Mrs. Hudson says it ages him, and Lestrade frowns and says, “I think I have a crime suspect sketch that looks just like that, mate.” And they laugh. 

John meets Lestrade in a pub once; then it becomes a regular thing to watch a match, chat a bit. He’s tired after twenty minutes, can’t stomach more than a third of a beer, and spends the next day feeling like a car ran him over. It’s worth it, John thinks, even when Lestrade has to help him up the stairs after. 

Molly bakes him cupcakes, decorated. John hands them over to Mrs. Hudson because they smell like the morgue. 

Next time there’s a dignified double knock on the door and the creaking of it opening; John knows who it is already. It’s something in the careful arrogance of it. 

“John, good evening.” Mycroft pauses, eyes moving uncomfortably over him. 

John doesn’t make a move to cover up the obvious bump of his central line, or the blister packs of pills lying scattered around the flat. Fuck that. 

“Sherlock is still in Pakistan.” 

John thinks of Sherlock, wearing some sort of desert-appropriate veil in his mind, lying and shooting and whatever-ing his way through a country, tracing down spies, dismantling networks. He’s probably having fun.

“He is expected to make contact with an Indian operative tomorrow.” 

Mycroft’s holding a plastic bag, and John registers the air of greasy chips coming from it, the dry newspaper. Why on earth did he bring that in here? “Fancied fish and chips, did you?” 

Mycroft puts the bag on the coffee table and coughs, delicately. “I have been told that you are well enough to eat now?” 

Then sits himself down on the sofa, next to John, and opens the newspaper. John can feel the waves of warmth coming from it. The smell of it nearly overwhelming, and yes, the water rises in his mouth; he hasn’t had any in ages. 

“I seem to remember it being a favourite of you both?” 

_More Sherlock than him, really._

John doesn’t answer. 

Mycroft selects a chip between his thin fingers, carefully drags it through some sort of garlic sauce, and puts it to his mouth. As if that’s something they _do_. 

But it smells good. John reaches out and takes a chip as well before he’s made any conscious decision to, pushes it between his numb lips, to his tongue, chews. He can feel the texture, the fried edge that crisps between his teeth, the softer, starchy middle. It feels odd, his sense of taste is all messed up now. 

Mycroft silently pushes the packet over the table towards him, so it stands between the both of them. 

John tears a piece of fish, still awkward with one hand, and feels the crumble of it on his tongue as he bites into it. It’s hotter, that, and juicy, he has to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand after every bite. His fingers are shiny with grease. He dips a chip in sauce next, a hint of herbs, garlic on the back of his throat as he exhales.

They don’t talk, and John’s not sure what he would do if Mycroft did. 

Throw him out. Tell him where to stuff his chips. 

It’s easy to focus on it – eating. Chewing, swallowing. By the time they’re done, there’s nothing but some lost, cold chips left lying between them, greasy paper and an empty plastic bag. 

John goes to wash his hand, get some water, sips it. He’s trying to get the obvious sense of food out of his mouth. 

When he comes back, Mycroft’s leaning back on the sofa, a vague expression of relaxation on his face. He obviously has to force himself to get up. “Well, good evening, John.” 

John watches him as he leaves. 

 

-

 

The next time Mycroft comes by, it’s with the news that Sherlock is in Syria and frozen yoghurt. John’s been sick for days again, but he has some, can actually swallow it down. He likes the coolness on his throat. 

Molly comes by with a tub of Ben and Jerry’s and they watch Strictly Come Dancing. She cries, and John averts his eyes. 

He’s getting good at that, now - idly watching other people break down over his poor misfortune. They pull it over themselves like some comfortable blanket of suffering, wallow under it for a while and then leave. 

It’s like being an exhibit, of sorts. _Come see the John Watson._

There’s a barbecue in Lestrade’s back yard that’s uncomfortable as hell, and has Anderson, drunk, telling him he’s sorry about what he did to Sherlock. Lestrade has to drag him away because John wants to hit him, weak arms be damned, and he doesn’t sleep that night. Just sees Sherlock falling of that building, again and again, even though he knows it’s not true, he knows he’s not dead, it still feels like he is. 

John has quite a bit of time to stare, these days, at the walls, at himself, rarely.

He doesn’t stop wanking. 

People assume that being this sick equates to not having the least bit of desire for it, but it’s not true. Truth is that he does it when he can’t stand it anymore, when there’s nothing but walls and a blanket over his knees, his body feeling as if he’s a feeble hundred year old. Before he couldn’t think of Sherlock at all, the pain too heavy, but he does now. He imagines hitting Sherlock, pushing him down to the ground, pulling down his trousers and taking him. There’s nothing gentle about it. It’s fifteen minutes of diversion. 

Mrs. Hudson keeps on making breakfasts, and tea, and telling him that “Maybe he’ll come home soon, dear.” 

John fantasies about holding Sherlock’s head and pushing it down between his knees, making him take it. He doesn’t care why anymore. It gets him off. 

Mycroft brings sushi, and hesitantly makes some comments about flavour patterns and trade routes. John’s not interested in any of it. French cuisine, that John hates. _Rabbit_ , Jesus. Then kebab, Mycroft splatters garlic sauce on his tie, and spends the next twenty minutes glancing down at it with a deeply disappointed expression that makes John snigger every time he catches him at it. 

Then fish and chips again, and John gets that Mycroft knows it is Sherlock’s favourite and not his own. That they’re both sitting there with greasy fingers, eating to Sherlock’s memory in a silent - what, reminiscence? Or a fuck you. John feels a grim satisfaction as they finish the portion between them this time. Yeah, that works. 

Fuck you, Sherlock. 

Fuck. You. 

Mrs. Hudson says, “He should be here for you, dear.” so often it loses its meaning, so often it’s not a sentiment anymore but some sort of mantra: it would all be fine if only he was here, it would all be different. Well, it wouldn’t be, Sherlock can’t change _a damn thing_. “He should be here.”

John screams, “Yeah well, he’s _bloody_ not, though, is he?!” 

Which makes her cry, and him say sorry, and the day drags on. But it’s true. Sherlock’s not here. 

And it’s best that he isn’t.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The name and details of John's cancer are entirely fictitious and were imagined with the help of Recently Folded.


	2. (Mycroft)

 

 

Seeing John hold a gun to his own head is not something that Mycroft ever wishes to see again. 

Sherlock made an unforgivable error in faking his death and not telling John, Mycroft recognises that now, and worse, he made it right along with him. In not seeing that John needed Sherlock, not realising that his death would destroy him, they did not understand John. And he was nearly too late in intervening. 

Nearly. 

So, although Mycroft is aware that he is a poor substitute for Sherlock’s company, he tries to be present. 

John is very far outside of his normal sphere of contacts, of course. And other than updating John about Sherlock’s whereabouts, Mycroft does not particularly know what to say to him. He shares very little of John’s general inclinations, interests, or world views. Nor can he relate to his illness, or his grief. Mycroft has rarely attempted to connect to a person in adulthood, to form a friendship of some sort, and he finds the whole concept rather foreign. But John did always rely on his creature comforts, Mycroft remembers, jumpers and cups of tea, toast, a warm fire and a good chair. He always quite liked that quality, the fact that John appears so very unassuming and calm at the first glance, while he is anything but. 

So instead of concern, Mycroft brings him food. 

It was symbolic, that first time. Mycroft has not had fish and chips himself since the days he used to share them with Sherlock, and he knows John has that same connection, believes it might remind him of better times to come, so he takes the chance. 

And John reacts well enough, so he does it again. The first time was a Friday evening by chance, but after that it is an unspoken arrangement. Once a week, Mycroft brings news of Sherlock, if he has it, and dinner. 

He doesn’t mind doing so, Mycroft finds. 

It becomes something of interest, even, choosing a suitable meal. Something small and cold when John is ill. Something familiar when he needs the comfort. A full three-course meal, varied in flavours, when he needs the distraction. 

In fact, as time goes on, Mycroft rather curiously starts to enjoy it. 

And if he spends some time during the week researching restaurants to prepare food for the two of them on Friday nights, considering what would be appropriate, thinking of books to bring, details that might make John smile, then, well. 

Why not? 

 

-

 

It’s August, the fourth month of John’s treatment. Mycroft is in the hospital lift, carrying a tagine full of Moroccan couscous, as well as a large basket with plates, cutlery, wine, tea, dessert and a book. The pottery is heavy and hot in his hands and along with the woven basket over his arm it is rather bothersome to carry, but the chef insisted that it needs to be served that way. 

John is in for another round of chemotherapy. Only tonight, so he will be able to eat, still. 

It is Friday, as well. 

Mycroft has kept a close eye on John’s treatments in the past months, naturally. He receives updates on John’s blood work and numbers as often as his doctors do. Mycroft ensured that John has access to the best medical care possible, but sadly these days cancer is fairly mundane. John is a statistic. 

There are several people on this floor, some with opened doors, their eyes idly tracking him as he walks past. 

Mycroft stops a nurse, “John Watson?” These rooms are interchangeable, and John ends up in a different one every time. 

She looks him over, lingers on the food that he is carrying, and then smiles indulgently. “Room 319”.

Mycroft tilts his head in thanks, and walks on, momentarily wondering what it is that she saw that made her smile. It is not unusual, bringing a meal to a relative or loved one, he is certain of it. In fact, it is applicable in nearly all cultures. Food is the great unifier, a small measure of comfort offered for all sorrow. 

John looks up from his bed as soon as he walks in. “Hi.”

“How are you today, John?” Mycroft finds a table to set the tagine and basket down on, glad to be rid of their weight. He gathers plates and cutlery, aware that if he looks at John directly when asking that question, he will nearly always deflect it. 

The sound of John shrugging. “First day’s easy.” 

There is something appalling about knowing that it will get worse again, Mycroft thinks. 

He does not reply, instead opens the tagine, steam and a wave of herbs and spices hitting his face. It’s important to keep on changing the flavours of food while undergoing chemotherapy, he read. If not, John’s body will be conditioned to despise all foods later on. Also, no matter how spiced or bizarre he has chosen the meal, John has always tried it. He has quite the adventurous palate; it is actually Mycroft himself that is outside of his comfort zone more often than not. 

“How’s Sherlock doing?” 

That is also always the first question John has. Mycroft turns around to face him, “I have heard nothing recently I’m afraid, he is still undercover in Belarus. I do believe no news in this case to be good news.” 

Mycroft re-opens the wine, he had let it breathe earlier, and pours it, hands John a glass with just an inch of wine in it. John likes the taste but cannot stomach more alcohol than that, and if he gives him more he is likely to finish it. 

He pours a full glass for himself; a nice red, it is evening, after all. 

Mycroft places a chair next to John’s bed, then removes his jacket and hangs it over the back. He carefully rolls up his sleeves so that there will not be an errant speckle of sauce on them, he remembers the noodles and soy sauce incident vividly, that waistcoat is still at the dry cleaners. 

John watches him do it. “What are we having today?” 

“Ah,” Mycroft says. “I had a meeting with a colleague who spent some years in Marrakesh, and she recommended this restaurant to me.” It’s true. He does not tell John that that colleague is the head of an underground militia naturally; he does not need to know. 

Mycroft starts plating the couscous. “I believe we are meant to look for the specific taste of the lamb.”

John has a good sense of flavour, Mycroft has found. When his chemo is over he intends to gift him some fine wine, or perhaps even whisky. 

Mycroft brings a plate to John, who pulls the small table his hospital bed provides over his knees. Mycroft puts a plate for himself on John’s small bedside table, then sits down, and has a sip of the wine himself. It tastes full, and earthy. He lets it run around his mouth before swallowing. 

Mycroft glances at the IV bag hanging over John’s head, the tube disappearing under his shirt. As always, it is difficult not to despise how ill it will make him. “You are staying until tomorrow?” He already knows this, read it in the doctor’s file. 

“Yeah.” John sounds about as enthusiastic as Mycroft would imagine him to be. He balances a chick pea on his fork before bringing it to his mouth. 

Mycroft nods towards the basket, “I brought Victor Hugo, if you are interested. _The Hunchback of Notre-Dame_.” 

John tilts his head. “Maybe.” 

John’s usually too tired by day two to focus on any plot. He’s a slow reader, but a determined one, he has already finished quite the pile of books in the last couple of months. Mycroft has started to buy some of his old childhood favourites again and adding them to his personal library with the intention of loaning them to John. 

Mycroft tries a forkful of the couscous along with sauce himself. It is very aromatic, and the flavour of the lamb _is_ quite specific, he finds. It blooms on as he swallows, warms his mouth but not overheats it. “Hm.” 

John nods, “Yeah, it’s good.” 

They eat mainly in silence, although the world is not silent around them. The hospital is a melange of jarring sounds, people walking through the corridor, distant conversations, even the light is an uncomfortable brightness. Mycroft severely dislikes it, he could not spend more time than absolutely necessary here, it is ghastly. 

He focuses on John instead. He is calmly eating, he seems to enjoy it. Mycroft makes a note to look for a similar cuisine later, he has avoided most Middle-Eastern food thus far for its possible reminders of Afghanistan and John’s military service there, but John seems quite at home with it. 

John’s shaved off that beard as well, thank the lord. He looked awful, Mycroft thinks, and as Mrs. Hudson whispered to him, it aged him. 

When John has finished eating, Mycroft collects his plate, and pours the tea. “Mint tea I’m told is traditional.” Also that it aids the digestion. The chef added a fair amount of sugar, told him to serve it hot and in the tiny cups. There is some baklava as well. 

Mycroft presents it on John’s bedside table. John is not too fond of overly sweet flavours, but he can use the calories, he has lost weight again. John takes a piece, and tastes. “Wow, great honey.” 

“Yes, imported from Morocco, I was told. The taste is influenced by the flowers the bees encounter, so they need to come from a desert climate for it to be authentic.” 

John nods. “I remember that, Sherlock was always droning on about bees.”

Mycroft remembers it as well, quite fondly, in fact, “I believe he once had, or perhaps still has, plans to retire and become a beekeeper.” 

It makes John laugh.

Mycroft takes one of the small, overly sweet desserts, feels the honey sharp on this tongue, the sugar stick to his teeth, and muses, “I think he enjoyed their sense of order.” 

He washes it down with a small cup of tea, but the sweetness remains. “Perhaps the thrill of it as well, he used to stick his hands in beehives as a child.”

John lies back, tired now, but he laughs generously, for little reason. 

“He never got stung?”

“Once that I recall.” Mycroft remembers sucking the venom from Sherlock’s small wrist, putting his lips on there. Odd, it must be over thirty years ago now. “Later he asked for a beekeeper suit.”

“What - child-sized? Did he get one?” John asks.

“Yes,” Mycroft frowns, “although I am not aware as to its current location, sacrificed to some experiment, I imagine.” 

John laughs again. 

Mycroft can feel a smile play around his own lips. Really, the conversation nearly always returns to Sherlock. The difference is that where John was angry, at first, he now seems eager to hear about him. Perhaps to be distracted from his current medical state, but also because it has been a long time, Mycroft realises. The image of Sherlock is fading. 

He feels it as well, Sherlock’s absence. A year and a half now, and despite their many differences, he has never been without him that long. 

Mycroft intends to leave early and allow John to get some much-needed rest, so once the dessert is eaten he gathers all the dishes, stacks them back in the basket, and prepares to leave. As he does though, John reaches out, and stills him, touches his hand. “Thanks, for the food.”

Mycroft feels a faint flicker of surprise, and smiles. “Of course, John.” 

 

-

 

September brings short visits where they do not speak much, when John is that ill that he can‘t maintain a lengthy conversation. Nor eat much, even though he knows how important it is that he does. Mycroft brings cold dishes again, frozen grapes dipped in white chocolate and served with a chilled grappa. The next time a pear sorbet with small slivers of Stilton cheese. 

October is a month without chemo again. One where John slowly gains strength, colour in his face and some weight, and Mycroft realises that he has been watching him like the waxing and waning of the moon, these last few months, always grateful when he has made it through another round. 

John starts texting more regularly, often little things, details of books he’s lent him, or something he’s heard or seen. Sometimes an enquiry as to how Sherlock’s doing but he knows that Mycroft will inform him as soon as he knows it himself. Mycroft feels glad of the small distraction in his otherwise demanding workdays, and replies often, as well. 

Sherlock is in Serbia now, moving on intel of the very last network. He is closing in on them, and Mycroft intends to have him home by Christmas. He believes John might appreciate that. 

And then, at the very end of October, along with the falling leaves there is a text from John saying, “ _No more chemo. I am officially done. JW_ ” 

Mycroft immediately orders Anthea to get him the numbers of John’s latest blood work and checks, because he always feared that John might decide to end his treatment, that he would decide it was not worth it. But it is true, he is declared done, for now. Mycroft feels honest relief at the thought, and texts him, “ _My deepest congratulations, John. MH_ ” 

And then, “ _Do you wish to go to dinner to celebrate? MH_ ” 

John does not reply straight away and Mycroft feels some faint discomfort sidle up for having asked so freely. Perhaps he should not have. 

It is one thing to share a meal in the privacy of John’s home or hospital room when he has no other choice than to eat there, but quite another to go to a restaurant in each other’s company and go so far as to call it a celebration. 

As the minutes tick by, Mycroft wonders at himself, too. Why he assumed it would be a welcome suggestion to John, when surely he merely tolerates his company. Perhaps he should not even go by this Friday, Mycroft thinks. Once John is recovered more, he will go back to work. There will be no reason for him to visit, certainly not every Friday night, that is rather excessive. 

Mycroft does know that John sees Inspector Lestrade on average 1.3 times per week, so slightly more often than he sees him, and Miss Hooper around 0.6 times. John does not appear to have any other contacts, other than Doctor Stamford who has never come by Baker Street but regularly when John is in the hospital, and Mrs. Hudson, who he sees several times a day. John has not even told his sister that he is ill, nor has he seen any of his old girlfriends or colleagues. 

And then John replies, “ _Oh definitely, let’s go somewhere, anywhere. JW_ ” 

Mycroft types, quickly, “ _I will pick you up. And again - great news, John. MH_ ” and only then allows himself to feel a sense of relief that John does, in fact, want to accept his invitation. Mycroft does not need to specify the time, or that it will be Friday, John knows that. 

John even replies once more, saying, “ _Looking forward to it! JW_ ” 

Which makes Mycroft feel a small hint of anticipation as well. He realises that it is rather ridiculous; he has shared many meals with John by now, nineteen, in fact. A simple change in location will not make it all that different. 

But now Mycroft is left to decide where to take John that is worthy of good news, and he finds it a bit of a puzzle. It needs to be festive, naturally, but nothing too grand either, Mycroft thinks, considering John. He would quite like to go to the Dorchester or _Le Gavroche_ himself, mark it as an extraordinary occasion, but John will not be comfortable somewhere too luxurious or with a meal too extensive. 

He could take John to a restaurant where some of his favourite food came from, Mycroft considers, such as the Palestinian place in Greenwich, or the Malaysian restaurant in Lambeth. John did not enjoy French cuisine, which is a shame since Mycroft is quite fond of it himself. He did not enjoy sushi either, something that Mycroft agrees on. He laughed the most with Chinese and kebab, but that had little to do with the cuisine and more with Mycroft’s own ineptness. Ice cream and frozen delicacies were for the difficult days, nothing like that now. And fish and chips is not something that Mycroft wants to share with John again. They have done it twice, and twice is enough. 

No, this needs to be something different. No memories for either of them. It is a new beginning, for John, Mycroft thinks, and he is privileged enough to be here with him to note it. 

It takes him several days to decide. There is no reason to believe that John would be disappointed no matter what he chooses, of course, John has never refused to try food, even when he was ill. But still, Mycroft finds he wants to have chosen right. 

When the day is there, Mycroft makes the decision to have his driver leave early, and then when they arrive at Baker Street - of course - too early, he has him park around the corner for ten minutes. But when Mycroft gets out and rings the doorbell, it is obvious that John must have been waiting as well, because he opens the door within twenty seconds, already dressed in his jacket. 

The car drives them to Barnsbury; it is not very far, luckily. 

John asks, a glint in his eye, “So, what are you going to make me eat tonight?” 

Mycroft pretends not to notice the slight; he has never _made_ John eat anything, and says, “Well, since you are now officially no longer on chemotherapy, I believe we can really test your sense of flavour.”

John raises his eyebrows, laughs, and say, “It’s not going to be raw squid again, is it?” 

“I believe that will be highly unlikely, but just in case, you have my leave not to try it.” Mycroft says, smiling lightly. 

He later realises that he has forgotten to ask John how he is feeling tonight, but it seems unnecessary. He can read the answer both in John’s smiles, and in his slight pauses, where he glances out the window and does not speak. It is not a recovery, Mycroft knows. It is a temporary relief, one that deserves its celebration, but can never fully be victory. 

The car stops, and Mycroft leads John inside the rather large restaurant, already buzzing with patrons. John looks around appreciatively as they walk and the waiter leads them to their table, the best in the house, naturally. It’s a restored Victorian industrial building, all open space and dark wood, steel and low light. Mycroft has never been here himself, but the food is apparently outstanding. 

“Indian?” John smiles. 

“Contemporary Bombay cuisine, actually.” Mycroft eventually decided on it because of the flavours, bold and bright, seem likely to appeal to John. 

John tilts his head encouragingly, and has a seat. 

John wore a suit, Mycroft is surprised to see. It hangs off his shoulders, at least a size too large. John has lost weight, but the suit is also nearly a decade old, bought for some occasion, most likely not by John himself. Mycroft does not comment on it. John chose to wear it, and Mycroft can appreciate the thought behind it. Looking at him he is pressed not to tell John the address of his tailor, offer to have him something made, but he realises that that would be very unnecessary and unwanted. John has little occasion to wear suits, Mycroft reminds himself. And probably little desire as well. 

As they receive their aperitif, John, with a bit of a challenge in his eyes, raises his glass. 

Mycroft raises his in reply and clinks it against John’s, feeling a sense of gravity in that movement. He does not say why they are toasting, and neither does John. They both know what they are celebrating, after all. 

The food is delicious, every bite bursting with spice and flavour, and John seems particularly animated as well, eating and laughing. 

Mycroft did not fully take John’s recent low tolerance for alcohol into consideration until they are two dishes into the meal - _nalli nehari_ served with sesame-seed naan - and John looks at him with a flushed face, and says “The wine’s great but if I have any more you’re going to have to carry me home.” With a kind of twinkle in his eye, again, as if he means it to be a dare. 

Mycroft smiles, and says, “Ah, but that is why I employ a chauffeur.” 

“What, the poor guy has to carry all your drunk dates home?” John grins. 

Mycroft realises John is mainly teasing, but perhaps prying somewhat clumsily as well, so he replies honestly, “I cannot claim that I have been on a date in a very long time, John.” 

John sobers a bit in reply, and his eyes shift to the side, _memories_ , “Yeah. Me neither.” 

So Mycroft quickly adds, slightly uncomfortably, “But if I did, I would not have them carried by my chauffeur, I am a gentleman.” Just to make him laugh again. 

It works. John smiles around his wine glass, and does have another sip. 

Mycroft gives the waiter a subtle shake of his head when he comes by to fill their glasses again, and they both switch to mineral water, but John remains in high spirits throughout the evening. He gamely tries small portions of all the food they get served, and allows Mycroft to tell him about it. He is rather intelligent in his own way, Mycroft has found. A doctor, John was never going to be a stupid man, of course, but it is still pleasant to be understood. 

Time flows nicely enough, Mycroft requested in advance that the bill would not be brought to the table, aware that John cannot afford to pay it, and John does not seem to question its lack when they get up. It is only when they are back in the car, away from the busy sounds of others, away from the warmth of the restaurant and its food, that there is a silence between them again. 

Mycroft does not find it disagreeable; having John in the car next to him. He feels full, and he can still taste the dessert on his lips, with some undertones of the deep spices that came before. 

John is sitting fairly close, also lost in thought, perhaps. 

He can feel his warmth in the cool car. 

When the car stops at Baker Street John glances at him, and Mycroft is considering saying something referring to their earlier conversation, but it seems nearly sacrilegious now in the calm between them. So he just looks back, holds John’s eye, and enjoys the quiet thrill it gives him. 

John says, “Thanks, for dinner.” 

And Mycroft replies, perhaps too gentle, “You are very welcome, John.” 

John does not reach out to touch him, as he did in the hospital. Simply holds his gaze for a moment more, nods, and leaves the car. 

The driver waits until he’s inside before diving off, and Mycroft enjoys the thought of John the whole way back home, replays his words and smiles, realises it was a successful evening. 

And when he is home again, undressing out of layers of clothes that have caught some of the food smells, now, he thinks that there is no reason not to ask John to join him again next week. 

Perhaps Indonesian. Or Tunisian. 

Mycroft finds he is already looking forward to it. 

 

-

 

He does not hear from John for two days, and then it is to say, “ _Bored. JW_ ” 

Mycroft is sitting behind his desk and signing documents concerning the new Cuban trade agreements. He smiles briefly. He knows John has taken on Sherlock’s favourite word consciously, so he replies in kind, “ _Not contemplating shooting the wall, surely? MH_ ” 

“ _Not quite, but getting there. JW_ ” 

Generally they don’t meet outside of Friday evenings, but a week can feel rather long. Mycroft looks at the message in his hand. He could go by Baker Street easily, but he thinks that what John really needs is not a visit, but to get out of those cramped rooms. It is only afternoon, but he can spend an hour with John, perhaps take a little walk? So he offers, “ _South entrance of Regent’s park, Clarence Gate, in 30 minutes? MH_ ” 

As Mycroft thought, John accepts instantly, “ _See you there. JW_ ”

So Mycroft finishes his paperwork, has the car take a brief detour past his third favourite coffeehouse, then waits by the gates, holding a cappuccino _scuro_ for himself, and a caffe latte for John. 

They have been experiencing a fairly mild autumn but the weather is shifting now. It’s November, and it’s surprisingly cold. There’s a biting wind, occasionally sending up a flurry of leaves, and brushing through the nearby branches. 

There is barely anyone in the park on a bleak, weekday afternoon and Mycroft is glad of it. There is plenty of traffic on the street, offices lit against the gloomy weather with people working inside. Mycroft is wearing soft, high-quality leather gloves, but still he can feel the heat coming through the cups, warming his chilled hands. 

He doesn’t have to wait long. John is walking up quickly, hands in his pockets, face half-hidden underneath a scarf. He’s cold more easily now, Mycroft knows. He pulls it down as soon as he sees him though. 

“John,” Mycroft says warmly. 

John smiles, and accepts the coffee with a quick, “Oh, ta!” and wraps his bare hands around it. His face shows little signs of the cold, he always looks pale, but they shouldn’t stay out too long. The air clouds around John’s lips as he exhales. 

“How are you?” Mycroft asks, not only out of habit but because he wishes to know. 

John eyes him. “Besides not having chemo?” He says it as a victory, which is it, in fact. 

They start walking. “Besides that,” Mycroft says genially. He is very glad that John is feeling so well, of course. 

“Nothing much.” As they get on the paths inside the park, the leaves crunch under their feet, giving the park a somewhat abandoned, overgrown look. The trees are standing out starkly, bare branches black against the grey sky. “You?” 

Mycroft is not used to John returning the question, and the few times that he has, he has hesitated answering it. Yet he tries to be truthful. “Work can be somewhat... draining.” 

A heron takes off, large wings moving effortlessly. They walk towards the lake. 

John looks at him. “You starting wars again?” 

“Not planning to, but one never knows.” Mycroft smiles, “I do have an opening in my schedule.” 

John grins. 

They are passing the boathouse, the water slowly waving up to the shore as the wind plays with it. Again, John has not asked about Sherlock, Mycroft realises. Perhaps he thinks he should not do so repeatedly, that he will offer the information when necessary, so he says, “Sherlock is still in Serbia, but he is getting closer to the end goal.” 

Mycroft glances at John, and says what he has been planning to for weeks, hopes it will cheer him, “I believe he will be home before Christmas.” 

John, oddly, doesn’t make a sign of having heard. He simply lowers his shoulders, and walks on. 

Mycroft gives him time to reply. 

There are some ducks on the water, leaving long lines in their wake as they move on. 

John walks towards a bench, right by the water. There’s grass there, and Mycroft can feel the mud squishing wetly beneath his Oxfords as he follows him. They haven’t had any frost yet this year. The long grass brushes the bottom of his trousers. 

He uses his hand to smooth out the back of his wool coat before he sits down. Still he can feel the cold of the bench and the hardness of the wood underneath him. 

John speaks, dimly. “Not sure I want him to come back.” 

Mycroft has a sip of his coffee, feels it sit lukewarm and bitter on his lips. He should be surprised by John saying this, perhaps, but he is not. “Because you are angry with him?” 

John glances at him, then looks away

Mycroft has seen the growing apathy in John’s responses, his disbelief that Sherlock will want to engage with him, still, now he is ill. “You fear your friendship will have changed.” 

The side of John’s arm connects with his, just for a second, as he shifts on the bench. Mycroft briefly marvels at the way his whole body wants to lean into John’s nearby warmth. He doesn’t, of course. 

John is looking straight ahead, at the pond, the trees, the clouds growing slowly more shaded. “We’re not _friends_. Not anymore.” He touches his healed scar on the side of his face as a memory. 

Mycroft is so used to seeing it now he doesn’t find it a particular reminder. And as for John’s illness... “He cares for you.” 

Mycroft assumes that John knows that, of course, but perhaps he over-spoke because John laughs bitterly, as if this is all a joke. “ _Really?_ ”

Of course Sherlock does. Mycroft tries to look at it from John’s perspective, and he can see the hurt, the immense breach of trust, the pain, and he dislikes speaking for Sherlock, but, “You should not doubt it, John.” It comes out sounding quite genuine. 

There is a cloud of pigeons flying up, and then landing again, circling a tree. John is still looking at the water. 

Mycroft has been meeting John weekly for months now. He has talked to him when he was in pain, when he was sick, tired, bored and lonely. Yet it is mainly the sheer intimacy of speaking of these things that makes this feel significant, Mycroft thinks. Not the _temptation_ of it. His heart is beating heavily anyway, pushing blood through his veins.

John, consciously this time, presses his arm against his. Mycroft sucks a breath in through his nose. John’s moving close, breathing warmly on his cheek, smelling of coffee and wet green grass. There is little surprise in it, perhaps even some inevitability. 

Mycroft stiffly moves his face so his lips find the line of John’s. 

It’s a dry, soft brush of lips that sparks his senses, that makes his chest feel tight. He can feel John’s lips closely, the rugged texture of them magnified against his mouth. John sighs, a small sound.

It’s so quiet.

John pushes between his opened lips with the tip of his tongue, and Mycroft licks John’s lips in return, tastes him, finds the line of his teeth. John raises a hand, and puts his fingertips on the bare skin of his neck between his coat and scarf. He shivers. 

John tightens his fingers and the edge of his nails dig into his skin. Mycroft can feel his heart beat hard underneath his breastbone as he slows it down. A last, slow touch, regretful, then he breaks it off, leans back. 

John is still close. Mycroft can smell him; taste him, his scent pulling memories and care and laughter from the back of his mind. 

Mycroft turns away, composes himself. It’s getting darker, the tepid fade of an autumn afternoon. There is a weeping willow nearby, standing right of the edge of the water, its branches slowly moving as the current pulls them along, faded green on the near-silver water. It’s cold, his nose feels like ice. _Surely that was unnecessary._

John’s eyes are warm and full of promise when Mycroft looks back at him, which makes him want to keep on looking, linger here, but no. Mycroft gets up, and picks his coffee up. It’s gotten cold. The temperature is dropping quickly now that the sun is setting. 

John gets up as well, and follows him like a shadow by his side, gravel crunching under his feet. They walk back the way they came. The ducks scatter as they pass by, quacking busily, the sound echoing clearly over the water. 

It’s so empty, the whole park feels devoid of human life. 

Mycroft’s mind is oddly blank as well, his thoughts dimmed. Leaves crumble beneath his muddy shoes smelling like autumn, organic, rotten and sharp. John aims his coffee cup into a bin with a liquid thunk, and he does the same. 

The pond ripples. John clears his throat, then doesn’t say a word. 

_I’m sorry_ , Mycroft thinks, as they reach the gates, and they are about to part. _Sherlock, brother mine, I’m so sorry_ , as he turns to John, and stills him with a touch. 

John looks up, startled, then says as he meet his eyes, “Oh, _yes_.” 

John’s mouth is warm, his lips rough as they press to his. Mycroft’s body bends over his, his arms fit over John’s shoulders, and he feels a hard knot in his throat, a searing, hot thing in his chest. He’s not being careful anymore, his hands grabbing fistfuls of John’s jacket. He kisses John deeply, holds on to his compact, warm, sturdy body… 

And then lets go, abruptly, takes a step back. _No_.

He is breathing fast, an overreaction for what was simply a kiss, but he feels as if every bit of his skin wishes to lean into John, get him closer. It almost hurts. “I apologise, John” Mycroft says it, not certain if he believes it to be the truth. They’re too raw for that, the words in his mouth.

John seems surprised that he stopped. “No, that’s... that’s fine.” He smiles, a little dazedly.

Mycroft feels John’s touches wave over his skin still as if they’re echoing. As if he was at sea all day and his body doesn’t remember what to do when he is not, still insists on a phantom ebb and flow of jagged lips and grabbing hands. “It is not fine.” He says it reflexively, but it is the truth, it can’t be, _this is not allowed to be_. 

John’s eyes are shining in the gathering dark, but his lips and arms are a becoming a hard line now, _one that he could kiss away into something liquid and warm in an instant_. The thought comes unbidden, but not entirely unwelcome. 

“Right, no.” John takes a step back. 

John _breathes_ , and Mycroft can feel it. He has never done something like this, blatantly stolen something that should be Sherlock’s. It is ridiculous, his mind insists, meaningless, it is simply a moment of temptation between adults, soon to be forgotten. 

John looks at him, and nods stiffly. “Well, um, I should… bye.” 

He walks away. 

And Mycroft lets him.

 

 

 

 

 


	3. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock gets a message. Coded, of course: _check in, level red_. 

Sherlock feels a rush of irritation at seeing it - he’s going to throw away months of work by leaving now and he doesn’t want to. He’s so close to ending it, so close to dismantling Moriarty’s entire network. But Mycroft wouldn’t call him back lightly, so Sherlock escapes. He runs through the Serbian countryside for days, avoids being connected to anything local, and makes it to an airfield to find a plane waiting for him. 

There is no one there but a bored-looking pilot. “What?” 

The pilot shrugs, but points inside. There’s a file lying on the seat. 

Sherlock gets in, and looks at the note on the file. “ _I believe it is past time for you to come home. My apologies for not telling you sooner, but John did not wish it. MH_ ” 

Sherlock, startled by the mention of John, immediately opens the file and scans the first page but the words don’t connect, not immediately. It’s the report of a shooting, months ago, at an address he doesn’t recognise. A hospital report after that, detailing a broken finger and hand and a superficial head wound to a John Watson. _Suicide attempt_ , the doctor’s writing says to the side, as if that’s something John would ever do. 

There are more medical pages, a whole series of treatment notes spanning months. Treatment for cancer. 

Sherlock’s stomach turns uncomfortably. 

 

-

 

When the plane descends three hours later, Sherlock has done nothing but read and re-read the meagre bits of information in the file. The back of his mind is still on the mission as well, on finishing what he started and it is hard to switch it off. He has trouble thinking in English, he’s mentally translating every word he reads into Serbian, making John’s name sound differently in his mind, _John, John_. 

John is ill, seriously, he has been for months, nearly half a year. He has gone through a series of treatments, and Sherlock didn’t know. 

He didn’t know. 

In Sherlock’s mind John was always in Baker Street, reading, or working, or doing John-like things. In his mind, John was happy, maybe a bit bored, since he wasn’t around, but _safe_. It was better for John to think that he was dead and forget about him for a while, otherwise John, brave, proud John, would have wanted to come along and he needed to do this alone. The danger was too great - he nearly died so many times. 

So Sherlock kept John away from doing this. He kept him in the bubble of Baker Street - warmth and London. Home. 

And now that image is brusquely shifted into something else. 

By the time that the plane starts to descend, Sherlock can feel a hard pressure on his chest. All the things he thought and felt over the last year-and-a-half have been for John. 

The plane lands with hardly a tremor and Sherlock can see a black car out of his window.

Two shapes get out, and Sherlock feels the ice cold sense of being unprepared to see John right now. For some reason he was expecting only Mycroft, some time to change, and he’s not ready. He needs a moment to think of something great. To put the show back together, to be the Sherlock John will want, but it’s too late because Mycroft stays back near the car and it’s John who marches towards him. 

So Sherlock exits the plane. 

_John_. It feels like a complete surprise that there is such a thing, such a man right here. Sherlock feels as if his knees will buckle at the thought, let alone the image.

John steps closer, then stops. Balls his hands into fists, and Sherlock can see a flurry of details, so many he can’t process them all at once and it aches, _John_.

John looks at him. His eyes are hard, angry, and Sherlock can feel the “I’m sorry” press beneath his lips. 

But he did so many clever things. John will be _proud_ once he knows what he pulled off, John will be able to write about this for years. Sherlock only needs to tell him to see the impressed glint in John’s eyes, he only needs to do that, so Sherlock gathers what he can of himself, grins, and says, “Short version: not dead!” while preparing to be smiled at. 

John hits him in the face. 

Sherlock goes down like a house of cards, he falls to the tarmac with John over him, and oh, the _physicality_ of it, the great shock of his hard, warm body over his. Even with John’s hands painful around his neck, even with John trying to hurt him, it’s elation. Sherlock traces John’s gripping hands, stares up at John’s face so close to his he can feel him breathe, eagerly categorises every single detail of John’s skin and hair and eyes. 

Even when John gets up, shakes the hit off his hand, and cups his knuckles, Sherlock still lies there, and drinks him in.

Then John turns around and walks away, and Sherlock can feel a dull pain, as if John has stepped from inside his own body. As if he is ripping himself apart by letting him leave. 

John hasn’t even said anything. 

Mycroft comes up, now, walks as if he floats, a grimace crossing his features when he sees the state of him. “Sherlock.”

Mycroft offers his gloved hand to help him up, but Sherlock pushes himself up, the grit of the runway sticking to his palms. It’s hard to breathe, but that might be the cracked ribs from a couple of months back, he’s not sure. He can taste blood. 

Sherlock is already turning towards John again, but Mycroft stops him. “Sherlock.” He lowers his voice, “Give him a moment.”

So Sherlock focuses on the familiarity of Mycroft. Brother, annoyance, he both despises him and wants him to see, to _know_ how good he did, so Sherlock reminds him, “Does he know that I tricked Moriarty? That it worked? That I took out the network? Nearly?” 

Mycroft sighs. “Did you read the file?” 

“Stage three cancer,” Sherlock says, his eyes finding John’s back. He is standing hunched over, many paces away, his profile outlined starkly by the runway. 

“You didn’t tell me.”

“It was John’s decision not to while he was in treatment,” Mycroft says, annoyingly serene. Always composed, always prepared to answer and reason, and Sherlock hates him for it. 

Mycroft sighs. “There was nothing you could have done, Sherlock. He was right not to tell you.” He glances back at John, sees something, or nothing, Sherlock can’t tell, and says, “Come.” 

They walk to the car. John does look up at him then, and the force of his gaze feels like another blow to the face. 

Mycroft delicately chooses the front seat for himself, so Sherlock has no choice but to get in in the back, next to John. “I...” He watches John’s profile from the corner of his eye. Meets Mycroft’s concerned and _prying_ eyes in the mirror. 

“I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof.” Sherlock says it, desperate to see that light in John’s eyes. 

Instead John’s hands ball into fists again and he says, “Shut up.” 

“But…” _The first solution was…_

“Shut _up_!”

Sherlock does. 

The ride to Baker Street takes an uncomfortably long time. Sherlock can feel every bump in the road with how tense he’s holding himself. His face throbs. A thin string of blood drips from his nose until Mycroft wordlessly passes him his handkerchief. 

John is studiously looking outside, anger radiating from the lines of his shoulders. He looks awful, Sherlock thinks, skinny, pale, old. 

As soon as they pull up to Baker Street John gets out of the car, slams the door, and goes inside. 

Sherlock stays behind, and Mycroft’s attention turns towards him like a wound. “You might ask him how he’s been.” He makes it sound like a reprimand. 

Sherlock frowns. He knows, of course, ill. But cancer’s boring. John won’t want to talk about that. It’s like it was with his cane, John needs to be distracted, he needs to feel alive! Sherlock remembers that moment so well, the joy in John’s eyes when he fixed him. John needs adventures, adrenaline, that’s why John can stand him, too, because Sherlock does that for him. 

“Or at the very least, deeply apologise for your actions.” 

“It was for the best,” Sherlock says it immediately. John needed to be kept in the dark. John couldn’t know, because if he did, John would have told him to… Sherlock doesn’t know what. Not to do it. Or that he wanted to come along. It would have been too much. No, John needed to be safe above everything else. 

“It was not _for the best_ , Sherlock!” 

Sherlock’s surprised by his tone, _why do you care?_ But Mycroft composes himself, and speaks on, “You read that he tried to kill himself.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock did, although he hadn’t really thought about it. 

“He had very good reason, and I very nearly failed to stop him.” Mycroft’s eyes are intense. “I admit to having part in this, but it was ill-conceived and selfish, you did not protect him by leaving, nor by lying.” He sighs, “His death would have been on our hands, Sherlock, you do understand that?” 

Sherlock feels shocked by the outburst; Mycroft thinks he’s worthless, he’s always done so, but Sherlock had assumed that he would at least be somewhat approving of the work he’s done. They pulled this off _together_. And he has suffered, endured torture, hardship, nearly two _years_ of it, for the thought of John. Because it was right. John will understand that, if John sees… 

Mycroft shifts, and his expression softens somewhat. “I am sorry that your homecoming is like this, Sherlock. You might not believe it, but I am glad to see you home safe and well.” 

Mycroft’s right. He _doesn’t_ believe it. 

Sherlock looks at the door of 221b. It has never looked quite so unfamiliar. He’ll have to figure out something good to say to John, something amazing to make it all right again. 

“Sherlock, please remember that the last year has been hard on him. Extremely so.” 

Sherlock nods absently. Yes, yes, fine. 

Mycroft wrinkles his nose. “And perhaps help yourself to a shower before speaking to him further.” 

Sherlock gets out. “Yeah, bye.” 

Then glances back, all right, it is _somewhat_ nice to see Mycroft again. “Brother dear.” 

Mycroft’s mouth pulls a little, message received, Sherlock knows. They’re fine. 

He opens the door. 

 

-

 

John is not in the living room, so Sherlock stands in it, and looks around. He can smell mould and car exhaust, wood and paper, broccoli soup, and along with the amount of visual information is like a great, waving sea. It’s clean; it’s filled with books, even more so than before. John has lived extensively in the living room, signs of visitors and nights on the sofa, food in the kitchen and water rings on the table. Not much has changed, and yet it all has, this is John’s, not his. 

Sherlock walks on to his own room. The door is open, which feels strange, for a moment. His bed is an empty, white mattress, a square of clean sheets neatly folded on top. 

Sherlock goes into the bathroom, and strips mechanically. Mycroft was right, he stinks. He can’t talk to John like this. 

His clothes are stuck to his body with sweat and grime, some dried blood, as well. The bathroom seems unnaturally clean, and the white walls sting his eyes. Sherlock can see boot-shaped bruises over his ribs in the mirror, even though they are at least two weeks old. His nose is still throbbing from John’s punch but compared to everything else it barely matters. 

Sherlock drops all of his clothes on the floor, steps over the edge of the tub, turns on the shower, and stands under the spray. It beats on his shoulders, painfully stings his open wounds. There’s dirt and blood waving streams of faded brown and grey by his feet.

There is only John’s shampoo on the ridge of the bath, John’s shower gel. Sherlock uses it with the vague idea that he’s stealing something that isn’t his. 

He doesn’t know if John wants him to smell like him. 

Sherlock’s hair is a mess; he doesn’t try to get the tangles out, simply washes it with John’s ‘extra strength vitamin solution for hair’ and rinses it. He washes around the gashes in his torso, the cut by his thigh, the various abrasions from being tied up. They’re not bad enough to need attention. 

He gets out, and towels his hair, then the rest of him. He thinks about shaving, but the mirror is fogged up. He could open the bathroom door a bit and let it draw away, but - Sherlock’s eyes flick to the door. John might be in the living room. 

And John is used to… something better. John wants him whole, and clever, and bright and he is not right now. He needs to pull himself together. Be the Sherlock that John expects him to be. 

Sherlock wraps his towel around himself, collects his clothes from the ground and balls them up, and hurries from the bathroom. In two steps he is in his own room. He sits down on the bed. 

Apologise to John, Sherlock remembers. Make it good, make it thrilling. He needs to do something that will make John care for him again, that reminds John of what he does, that he makes his life _exciting_. 

But his brain curves and bends around the problem. Sherlock’s not sure how, right now. It feels more unreal being in Baker Street than his memories of Baker Street do.

He lies down, and curls into a ball, conserves heat. He needs to think. 

 

-

 

Sherlock wakes up in the dark, curled up on the bare mattress and shaking with cold. He is instantly alert and quiet, _don’t let them see you are awake, get the advantage_ , and it takes a long, tense minute before he recalls where he is. Even when he does, it seems so improbable that he has to compare the light patterns falling through the window with the ones in his mind to believe that he can possibly be back in Baker Street again. 

The door is open, he sees. 

Either he never closed it, or John came in to check and he didn’t even hear it, which makes him feel utterly _useless_. John was waiting to see him and he _fell asleep_. No more of that. Sherlock rolls over, and winces. He turns the light on, and looks through his bedroom dresser for underwear, trousers, shirt, and wears them, the soft, tight fabrics strange on his skin. 

Then back to the bathroom, he is feeling oddly unstable, but that doesn’t matter. Sherlock finds John’s razor, shaving foam, and shaves. His hair is too long, it looks unkempt and tangled. Sherlock’s hesitant to cut it himself, but he needs to, needs to look something like himself again _right now_ , so he uses a small pair of nail scissors to cut off the long parts. His hands shake. 

His arms ache as the sink fills up with loose curls. 

Sherlock gathers them all up and puts them in the bin. He runs his hands through his hair and he’s still ragged looking, somehow. He feels so uneven; it must be some time in the middle of the night. It has been days since he’s had food, maybe that’s it. 

Sherlock leaves the bathroom behind, and walks to the kitchen, turns the light on. It’s only then that he realises that there’s a shape on the sofa that stirs. He thinks of turning the light back off, but it’s too late, John’s voice, worn with sleep, “Oh, _now_ you’re up?”

Sherlock says, stupidly, “I….” And then, “I can come back later.”

But John grunts, and gets up. 

Sherlock stands in the kitchen like a visitor while John walks past him, and puts the kettle on. John opens the fridge, pulls a plate out with sandwiches, obviously made by Mrs. Hudson, and says, “She wants to see you.” and “She’s _pissed_.” 

Sherlock blinks, _why?_ He eyes John. He could ask, but John’s here, with him, so he shouldn’t say anything bad. He should just… 

John unwraps the food, and gets him tea. So Sherlock sits down, awkwardly. He takes a breath, wants to explain again, _I did this for you, John. I was a hero, like you wanted me to be._ But looking at John Sherlock can’t say it, somehow. 

He’d thought that John would be ecstatic to see him again. He thought that John would say ‘when’s the next case?’ or that he would joke about murder. He thought that John would open up and shine like the sun.

But this John seems tired and old. Does his treatment make him require more sleep? Has he not been sleeping? Sherlock’s own mind is thrumming too oddly to deduce it all, not like this. 

John asks, “You want some paracetamol for that?” 

Sherlock can barely remember where he is hurting - his whole body is, it has been for so long. And no one has asked him, in that time, so he doesn’t know what to say. 

John gives him two, and then walks off. He goes upstairs to his room, so Sherlock is left alone in the kitchen. He swallows the pills, and eats, mechanically. He is starving, but he can barely make himself swallow.

When he’s had enough he goes to the sofa, and lies where John was. He can’t feel John’s body heat lingering there, but there’s a blanket and it smells like him. It feels like him, and somehow it feels more real than looking at John just now did. 

He sleeps on.

 

-

 

The next time Sherlock wakes up it’s to Mrs. Hudson loudly banging a tea tray onto the table, shocking him into alertness. She’s lucky that he doesn’t tackle her, but that’s only because in sleep the blanket has tangled around his feet and he’s disoriented. 

“How could you do that, Sherlock!” 

She’s angry, just like John said. But also wearing a new dress and lipstick, _dressed for him even though she’s upset_. “Leave him behind like that. To all of us, we went to your funeral! We…” she swallows, and her voice breaks, “we thought we’d lost you!” 

Sherlock blinks. She seems to be done, but no, she pushes his feet away and sits herself down on the sofa. “You have no idea how selfish you’ve been!” 

_Selfish_ , again. There were snipers on her. Moriarty was going to kill her, he’s the only reason that she’s not dead. 

“You have to think of the people you love, first! You can’t just let us hurt like this, Sherlock, lie like this, and to _John_ …” She sounds sad. 

Sherlock eyes her, _what about John._

“He doesn’t have much time left.” 

And that’s overdramatic. John is fine, Sherlock thinks, remembering the strength behind his punch. John was ill, so what, he went through chemo, but he’ll be all right. “He’ll get over it.” He says, sure of it. 

Mrs. Hudson looks instantly upset again. “Sherlock Holmes, you better show him some sympathy! What you’ve done…” She shakes her head. “He won’t forgive you easily.” 

She gets up, and then places a hand on his shoulder that feels peculiarly _gentle_ , “But it is nice to have you back, dear.” 

Mrs. Hudson leaves, and Sherlock takes the teacup. It rattles in his hand before he stills it. He feels hazy, still, as if Baker Street is nothing like the memory it has been. As if this is a concert, performed just a little out of sync. 

Sherlock thought that Mrs. Hudson would cry with joy at seeing him again. That she’d be thrilled to know that he’s not dead. 

He thought a lot of things. 

 

-

 

John’s illness is all around the flat now that Sherlock looks for it. Additions to the piles of books that are obvious presents that cater to John’s taste. Some Sherlock recognises as loaned or maybe even gifted from _Mycroft’s_ collection, appalling as that is. 

There is an IV stand in the closet next to the hoover. A small plastic chair that fits into the bathtub, hidden in a corner. There is half a pharmacy of medication in one of the kitchen cupboards. Needles and syringes, pre-mixed IV’s still in the packaging, sterile wipes, dressings, and Sherlock feels it press around him uncomfortably, the idea of John here, _ill_. 

John himself doesn’t come down for a while, and when he does he grimly walks past Sherlock and uses the bathroom, gets dressed and has breakfast with a strange, annoyed efficiency while Sherlock looks at him from the living room. 

John gets a text, and then says, his first words that day, “Lestrade’s coming over.” Sherlock has no say in it, apparently. 

When the doorbell rings Sherlock goes downstairs himself, opens the door and readies himself for another fist in the face. But Lestrade takes a step back when he sees it’s him, and his face slowly relaxes. He _smiles_ , and says, “You bastard.” 

And then, “Goddammit, Sherlock, thought I’d never see you again,” and pulls him into a heavy hug. 

Pressing on his bruises, in fact, Sherlock hasn’t been hugged in a very long time and it feels rather overwhelming, Lestrade’s arms around him. He can see Baker Street’s pavement over Lestrade’s shoulder. One of the neighbours is having an affair. Obvious, really. 

Lestrade comes up with him, still smiling, and immediately goes to John in the kitchen. Then asks, turning around, “Well, where were you all this time?” 

Sherlock glances at John, does he want to hear this? He starts, “I tricked Moriarty with the suicide, then I…”

John gets up, and demonstratively walks away. So Sherlock stops talking. 

Stands there, numb.

Lestrade shuffles awkwardly, then comes close, and puts a hand on his shoulder. The opposite one that Mrs. Hudson touched, Sherlock notes. “It’s going to take a while, yeah?” Lestrade frowns. “It’s… you really hurt him. Really hurt him. And with everything…” he lets the sentence trail out. 

Lestrade goes upstairs to John’s room, too. Sherlock can hear them a couple of minutes later, John’s door opening and them agreeing to go to the pub together. 

He’s not invited. 

 

-

 

Molly, Sherlock goes to see himself. 

She’s bent over a corpse - _died from liver cirrhosis, why is she even performing an autopsy_ \- and nearly drops her bone saw when she sees him standing there. 

But then she seems fine. 

“I am never,” Molly says while she saws through the man’s ribs, “ _Never_ ,” she puts a rib spreader in there and cranks them apart, “Lying for you again. To John or anyone, it was awful!” 

Some blood splatters on her sleeves, and the plastic covering her face. 

“You helped save John’s life.” Sherlock says, practically, he hopes. 

_Play to her sentiment._ “And mine.”

Her eyes soften. “I know. I know that, Sherlock, but…” Molly shakes her head, and takes a scalpel. “You didn’t see him. You were off somewhere, you don’t understand.” 

That’s the theme for the rest of the day. He doesn’t understand. 

Sherlock thought of having some sort of press conference to announce his triumphant return, with John by his side. But Mycroft emails him a proposed file to release to the press, and he finds himself sending “Fine.” without thinking on it more.

The headlines will say something like “Great detective is back!” or “Holmes is alive!” 

Sherlock doesn’t care. 

He stops by his barber, and comes back, hair freshly styled and smelling of product, every curl twisted just right. John’s reading, when he walks in, his body radiating anger. But he has to, he _has_ to try and explain, so Sherlock says, “Moriarty had to be stopped.”

John shifts on the sofa, but doesn’t run away, so that means he’s listening, and that’s good enough for now. 

“Once I was on the roof, there were thirteen possibilities.” Sherlock can feel his mouth go dry, and he has to swallow to continue. John is still listening, good, it will take a while, but if he can tell the whole story John will see how utterly brilliant it was, _genius_ , really, to pull this off. 

“The first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags - impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly, a system of Japanese wrestle...” 

“I don’t care how you faked it, Sherlock!” John is looking up, his eyes shining with no, not anger, Sherlock can see, _betrayal_. “I don’t care!” 

How could he not care? He does really, Sherlock thinks. How can he not? It was so good. It was like a puzzle, like a great web of tricks and diversions and lies, it’s the biggest ruse he has ever pulled off. It was exhausting and painful and horrible but it had to be done, he did what had to be done. “It was necessary, John.” 

John shakes his head, “No, no it _wasn’t_.” 

John balls his fists again, and Sherlock moves a step back just in case although John is still sitting down. 

“I would have followed you; I would have kept your secret. I would have done anything, _Sherlock_.” John’s voice gets low and gentle, “ _Anything_ , and you fucking knew it, so you decided to...” John takes a shaky breath, “To LIE to me. Why? _Hmm?_ Why?”

Sherlock can feel a moment of doubt, he doesn’t know, really, just that John was a liability, that John had to be kept away, that it was too dangerous. “I couldn’t involve you.”

“You did!” John rises up from the sofa in a rush, points at him. “I already was involved and you know it.” 

John takes a big gulp of air, “I wanted you not to be dead. That’s all I wanted. But you were.”

“I’m not now,” Sherlock says, he’s not, he’s right here, John can stop that feeling bad about that now, surely. 

“Yeah.” John grabs his jacket. “And don’t I fucking know it.” 

 

-

 

It takes nearly five hours for John to come back. 

Five hours where Sherlock lies on the sofa, and thinks of what he has to say to John to make it all right again. 

Molly, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, even Mycroft, said that it was bad, that John has been suffering, that he hurt. It’s just like when John left the army, he’s sad and bored and he needs adrenalin to feel like himself again. So he needs to remind him of what it was like, before. 

John comes back drunk. It’s signalled loudly before he even opens the door. The shuffle at the lock outside, the noisy thumps on the stairs, and he reeks of it, too, a wave of stale beer and cigarette smoke follows him in as he opens the door. 

John says nothing as his scarf gets aimed at the hanger, and he takes his shoes off. 

But Sherlock is ready. He rises, and gets in close. He sees John’s head tilt towards him, can tell that his heartbeat picks up, yes, great, Sherlock near-whispers, “We’ll take a case. You can come with me. You have missed it, admit it.” 

John sighs. “Sherlock…” 

“The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world...”

“No.” 

John turns away, drags himself upstairs, and Sherlock is left standing there. 

He’s not sure, but John did react to his presence, he definitely did, so… Sherlock walks up the stairs after him, heartbeat rushing in his ears. If only he gets through to John, he’ll forgive him. He just needs to find the right words, the right thing to do, and then it’ll be fine. 

Sherlock gets to the top, and pauses by John’s very closed door. He can’t tell if John’s heard him come up after him or if he’s too drunk to. 

Sherlock grabs the doorknob and turns it. It creaks, opens, and throws a column of light into the dark room. 

“Wha?” John’s a shape next to the bed, unbuttoning his shirt. “…Jesus fuck, Sherlock- _what?!_ ” 

Maybe he needs to… Sherlock thinks of what Mycroft said, and says, the words uncomfortable in his mouth, “How are you feeling?”

John breathes out slowly. “You’re asking me _now_.” 

Sherlock walks towards him, and John shifts, “Of course you are. Because you can never behave like a _freaking human being_.” 

John’s shirt is half-unbuttoned, and there’s a small bit of naked skin, right by his collar bone. Sherlock feels the curious temptation of it, he wants to run his finger over the arch of John’s throat. Feel how warm it is. 

“John…” Sherlock steps in close, very close, touches the edge of John’s collar, and pulls it aside slowly. _Please._

John sighs, then notices what he’s doing, grabs his shirt and tugs it up, “For god’s sake, Sherlock!” 

Sherlock opens his mouth. The words still and tangle and throb, raw and painful in his throat but he pushes them out. “I’m sorry.” He breathes, angles towards John. “For all the hurt I caused you.” That sounds nice, he thinks. 

“I’m drunk right now.” John says it as a prelude, as if Sherlock didn’t know that. “Very.” 

Sherlock can smell it on him, and wants to lick his lips, to taste the terrible hint of beer. 

“...So I’m not lying when I say that I’m going to hit you again if you don’t _get the fuck out_.” 

Sherlock takes a step back. Oh. 

He reaches the door and John doesn’t stop him.

The last he sees is John hiding his face behind his hands.

 

-

 

Sherlock, after a moment of indecision on the stairs, gets his coat from the living room and keeps going, right out the door. It’s cold outside; he can see the air burst from his lips as he breathes. But he doesn’t feel it, his mind is on John, his heart is beating oddly, his fingers recalling nothing but the bit of fabric that he touched. 

John.

Killing Moriarty’s henchmen was so much easier. 

Sherlock’s steps are echoing on the mostly empty street. He’s not the only one here, some cars are passing by, some homeless, huddled into blankets and rags and hidden in the shadows, too. They look up, and then dismiss him as he walks past. He could join them, Sherlock thinks. He has, for a while in Krakow. 

He thinks about cocaine, too, it would clear his mind, at least. Sherlock doesn’t know any good dealers any more but there always are, he should be able to find one in less than twenty minutes. Or he could track down a case. Someone must be murdering someone somewhere!

But what he really needs is information.

Mycroft’s house looks as imposing and cold as ever, all shadows over an immaculate façade. Sherlock presses in the code by the front door, Mycroft changes it once every seven days but Sherlock can always guess it within thirty seconds. It takes him twenty-seven, today, his fingers clumsy. He’s still not fully recovered from the last beating in Serbia. Or the one before that, they all run together now, not important. 

The door opens for him with a click, but Sherlock registers that only with a small part of his mind, mainly he sees that there’s still a light on somewhere past the hallway. 

He doesn’t bother with being quiet, simply walks in. 

Mycroft is sitting behind his enormous gleaming dinner table, and looks up tiredly. “Sherlock.” 

It’s after one in the morning. There is a near-empty glass of whisky near Mycroft’s hand, and an array of files in front of him, slightly crumpled. A half-empty box of Belgian chocolates to the side. 

“Midnight snack?” Sherlock says, hollowly, playing his part automatically although it feels like it’s far away, now, who he was. 

Mycroft tilts his head. He doesn’t comment, nor offer him one. 

“You’ve gained nine pounds,” Sherlock notes. He’d noticed it the first time he saw Mycroft already but now Mycroft’s in a waistcoat and it’s even more obvious. “Good year, was it?” 

Mycroft leans on his elbows, rests his hands over his mouth for a second, then rubs them over his neck, and sighs. A tell, that, and a big one. “Sherlock...”

Sherlock’s legs feel weak, suddenly. His cold fingers sting with the sudden heat. “He’s angry.” Sherlock says, voice sounding too vulnerable for his liking. “Doesn’t matter what I say.” 

It was easy, for a while. He had a simple objective, one mission, one case after the other. This is different, he forgot how to deal with John or maybe he just doesn’t know how to deal with this one. John’s so strange, so distant, so different from the John in his mind. That John would have laughed by now. Told him that he was so happy he was back. And Sherlock needs to know what to do, how to make it better again. 

Mycroft looks him over, gathering compassion in his eyes as he takes in detail after detail, “I imagine that it will make no difference to you, but I _am_ sorry that I led you on this path. At the time it seemed... _reasonable_.” 

Sherlock sees the drink on Mycroft’s desk again, considers the time of night and the state of him and his precious paperwork. Even Mycroft’s tie is askew where he’s pulled at it. 

“You _care_.” Sherlock says it, for a moment thinking that maybe it isn’t true. “About this. _John._ ” 

Mycroft raises his chin, “It was my actions as well that led to this, so it would be remiss of me not to.” 

Sherlock hates the implication of it. That somehow he _doesn’t_ care, while he just spent that much time doing this for John, _bleeding_ for John. 

It’s easier to focus on Mycroft. “You never get involved.” 

At all, Mycroft doesn’t do friends. Or even acquaintances, unless they’re somehow useful, only colleagues and underlings. 

Mycroft closes his eyes briefly, _angry at himself_. “Just... apologise and listen to him. Your loss nearly killed him, Sherlock. You must make it clear that you will not do that to him again.” He hesitates, “Acknowledge his illness. Tell him that you wish to be there for him no matter what. That you... feel for him.” His eyes shift away quickly.

That’s a nauseating level of emotion from _Mycroft_. Sherlock says, defensively, “Caring isn’t an advantage.” 

“Oh, Sherlock.” Mycroft smiles, lightly, but there is no joy to it. “Of course it isn’t.” 

 

-

 

Sherlock lingers on the dark streets on his way back. 

He doesn’t even try to avoid CCTV cameras. 

He’s been gone from London for too long. It doesn’t rush into his blood; it doesn’t sing to him, it doesn’t feel like home. He takes detours past choice streets, familiar corners, but they’re tainted by the last two years, changed by his absence or by the way he is looking at them, he’s not sure. He walks at a slow pace throughout most of the night, and then sits down on a bench and huddles in his coat.

Eventually he watches the sun filter the clouds into a less dull grey and tries to go home. 

But Baker Street feels unreal, again, unfamiliar. Not his. 

John’s there, looking up from the sofa with tired eyes. He’s eaten, Sherlock can see, but only a bit of toast. He’s hung-over. He doesn’t look too worried, so Mycroft might have told him where he was. Sherlock scans for John’s phone; sees it lying on the kitchen table. Yes then. He feels annoyed at that for a moment, as if Mycroft’s influence wasn’t stifling enough before, now John is part of it, too. 

Sherlock stands in front of John, who looks up at him, wearily. 

“John,” Sherlock says quickly, then doesn’t know what should follow. Somehow this has to be all right again. _I’ll give you everything to make up for it._

John eyes him, and Sherlock has no idea what he wants him to say anymore, what he wants him to do. “...I _am_ sorry.” 

John sighs. “Yeah.” 

Then finally, finally seems to give in. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

 


	4. (John)

 

 

John can’t sleep. 

It’s incredible how long a night can feel when there is nothing to do but lie there. How much _thinking_ he can do. 

The ceiling seems lower every time he opens his eyes. The room feels airless. His sheets are wrinkled and uncomfortable underneath him, he’s sweating but too cold to throw the covers off completely, he’s half-hard and can’t be bothered to wank. 

Sherlock has been back for a week. He’s sleeping downstairs right now, which should fill him with some dear, tender idea of second chances and friendship, John assumes. 

Instead he just wants him to be gone again. 

Sure, if Sherlock came into his room right now and instead of a mumbled apology tackled him to the bed, John would say no first and fuck him second. He’d punch and suck and bite to get it _out of his system_. He might consider doing just that, if he didn’t want more, too, and that’s the problem. He’d want to hold him. Kiss him. Tell him that he missed him. Lick that pretty little bruise on his cheekbone. 

John did hit him. When Sherlock walked off that plane, before he could say a word, and despite how horribly tired and neglected he looked, John _hit him in the face_. 

It wasn’t nearly as satisfying as he thought it would be. Especially when he saw Sherlock later, curled up on his mattress, half-naked, covered in bruises. John might have forgiven him right then and there and he did, kind of, only he couldn’t do the same when Sherlock was awake, grinning like he’s the best thing ever. So bloody arrogant, so inconsiderate, so... well, _hot_ ; John knows. 

He’s always wanted to fuck him, and that hasn’t changed a bit. 

But John doesn’t want to have to deal with Sherlock. Doesn’t want to go anywhere near Sherlock because once he lets himself care again, once he thinks it’s _safe_ , it’ll rip him to shreds when Sherlock lies again. And he doesn’t want to feel this wrenching _like a wire cutting through his chest_ tension every single time he has to go downstairs, he doesn’t. But once he stops being angry, there won’t be anything comfortable left.

Or anything at all. 

 

-

 

John’s had a single text from Mycroft since Sherlock’s been back and that was " _Sherlock came to see me, right now he is ‘getting reacquainted with London’, I imagine that he will be back by morning. MH_ " 

John appreciated it at the time, when he was wondering where Sherlock had gone. And cursing himself for not pulling him into bed with him. Or for not leaving Baker Street as soon as Sherlock was back, telling him where to stick it - one or the other. 

But now John reads the message again, and again. 

_Mycroft._

Oh, John knew what he was doing, kissing Mycroft in the park. It was building for weeks already, _months_ really. John thought that he imagined it, at first. Definitely knew it was something he should put out of his mind since he’s half-dead and entirely used up, but there it was. That lingering deep-down ache for _something good I guess_. Flirting, smiling, it was idiotic to even try. 

And then Mycroft went and got Sherlock back, so John can read between the lines here. He got the message. 

But Mycroft’s been here throughout the whole fucking thing and John got used to talking to him. He actually - fuck it - _misses him_. 

John puts his phone away, and then picks it up again ten minutes later. 

Eventually he gets up, and goes outside. Sherlock glances at him from behind his laptop as he leaves, but doesn’t ask where he’s going. John just breathes a little easier as he closes the door behind him. 

He walks to the park rather automatically, it’s close by, it’s usually not too busy. There’s some drizzling rain. It might turn into sleet; it feels bitter enough for it. The couple of cars on the road are driving with their wipers screeching in the relative quiet, engines coming close and fading again as they pass him by. 

John gets to the gates, looks away as he walks past them, and then chooses a bench at random to sit. He takes out his phone, still nothing. So he texts Mycroft himself, “ _Call me? JW_ ” 

After a moment, John adds, “ _Not urgent. JW_ ” Mycroft has better things to do than to chat with him, most likely. 

The rain is slowly soaking through his jacket, sitting here. John watches the ducks, idly swimming as the rain makes perfect circles in the water. 

His phone rings within five minutes. 

“John?” Mycroft sounds concerned. 

They actually haven’t talked on the phone much at all. “I’m fine,” he says quickly. “Just…” _Talk to me?_ Well, that’s weird. 

“Sherlock.” He says darkly, certain that that’s probably enough.

“Ah.” Mycroft says. 

“Don’t have a fucking clue how to…” deal with him. Be around him. Forgive him. John stares at the ducks. One of them waddles onto the shore, maybe hopeful that he’ll have bread. 

“I believe that when it comes to my dear brother, none of us have _a fucking clue_.” Mycroft sounds mildly self-deprecating. 

Not for the first time, John wonders what happened when Sherlock went over there in the middle of the night. He’s seen them snipe and roll their eyes at each other plenty of times, but he can’t imagine how that went down. “How was he?” He came back looking so drawn, it was odd. 

Mycroft sighs. “Distressed, I believe.” 

“He said it.” John admits. God, that’s even hard to say like this. “He said he’s sorry.” The duck tilts its head at him enquiringly. John kicks his leg so it scampers off. “I don’t care.” 

“It will take time. I believe that you know that, John.” Mycroft pauses. “For both of you.” 

“Yeah.” John doesn’t know that for sure, actually. What does it take for something to be so fucked up that it can’t be repaired? For a friendship - and yes, _that’s what it is_ , Sherlock doesn’t do anything more so that’s what it is, _friendship_ \- to be broken forever? 

Mycroft sounds hesitant. “I have some time, if you wish to meet?” 

John’s surprised that he’s offering. He was pretty sure that Mycroft would stay away at all costs now. But maybe he thinks the week’s feeling pretty empty without him, too. Maybe he just wants to chat about Sherlock. John looks at the sky. It’s raining less. “I’m in Regent’s Park.” 

He can hear by Mycroft’s breath that he didn’t expect that. The implication that he’s here despite, maybe because of, what happened last time they were here. Mycroft won’t want to come to the park, John thinks, won’t want to _insinuate_ anything. 

“Colette’s then? It’s a twenty minute walk from your location.” 

As he thought. “All right.” John agrees, and ends the call. 

 

-

 

John does enjoy the walk, breathing wetly into his scarf, his cold feet stamping on the pavement. And when he turns into the right street Mycroft is there already, standing under his umbrella a couple of paces away from the entrance, looking deep in thought. 

John slows his step. 

Mycroft makes a striking figure, dark against the background of dull bricks. 

John’s spotted right after that, and Mycroft’s face changes to a pleased but quickly suppressed smile as he sees him. Mycroft nods, “John.” Then lowers his umbrella and closes it, and opens the door for him. 

John feels relieved on seeing him, too. 

The warmth of the pricey little coffee shop hits in a wave of scents, dark coffee beans, sour milk foam, baked goods, chocolate. There are a few scattered patrons and the hum of conversation. The owner looks at them as they come in. Mycroft nods at her and leads John past the counter and to a small table in the back, his hand briefly touching the back of his jacket. 

So proper always. Part of John is intrigued by Mycroft just to see what would lie beneath. What it would take to make the most dangerous man he’s ever met _sweat_ , and _beg for it_. John clamps down on the thought, takes his jacket off and sits down while Mycroft goes to order. 

There’s a radio playing somewhere. It’s too soft to make out most of the melody, but it sounds like a carol. Already. 

It’s going to be Christmas in six weeks. Most depressing one ever, probably, John thinks darkly. There’s something about the forced cheer that seems so transparent, now, so phony. Buy some things and eat some things and it’ll all be _fucking magical_. Maybe having a limited life span should make him grateful for every moment he’s still alive but it doesn’t, not at all. Half of the time he forgets, and the other half he’s fucking angry that he’s dying, and that his body is about to give in. 

There’s a row of plastic stars hanging from the ceiling, slowly turning from side to side. 

Mycroft comes back a couple of minutes later with a tray. An espresso in a delicate small cup and tiramisu cake for himself, a latte and a small berry tart that he sets in front of John. 

John didn’t ask for either. He’s so used to Mycroft bringing him food that he doesn’t even ask anymore, and he should probably mind more than he does, John thinks, being _served_. Instead he can instantly conjure up the taste of the berries in his mouth, sour and ripe, and he pulls the plate towards him. 

Mycroft slowly unbuttons his coat, drapes it over the back of his seat, takes off his gloves, and then sits down across from him. 

John realises that he hasn’t said a word yet. _It’s good to see you, want to fuck?_ won’t quite cut it, he assumes.

Then again, Mycroft doesn’t seem to expect him to talk. No “how are you feeling, John?” Not today. 

_So._ John slices a piece of the tart, and pushes it between his lips. The crust flakes in his mouth. There’s a cooler, smoother texture of crème over that, and then the small, round snap of berries crushing between his teeth. It’s nice. John likes tart desserts more than sweet ones. Mycroft is the other way around, John thinks, he always picks rich, indulgent things for himself. 

Mycroft is gently stirring a packet of sugar into his espresso with a small teaspoon. When he sees him looking, he takes a breath, and says carefully, “I wish to apologise to you as well, John.” 

John remembers Mycroft’s startled, soft apology right after he grabbed him and kissed him in perfect detail. He’s replayed it in his head more times than is probably healthy. 

“I had a part in what happened with Sherlock’s death.” Mycroft eyes him, “I helped plan it, and I lied to you.” 

John nods, _yeah, you did._

“More than that, recently…” Mycroft frowns, “I acted both rashly and selfishly, and I like to believe that neither is excusable.” He sounds serious. “I do not want to lose your friendship, John.” He looks at him, “If I still have it.”

 _Mycroft’s mouth on his, his hands pulling him in._

John lifts his coffee and takes a sip. He knows it’s hot, probably on the edge of drinkable. He can feel the swallow of liquid, first foamy, then scorching going down his throat. “It’s all right, it’s... we’re fine.” 

Mycroft loses some of the tension around his eyes. Looks down, and delicately takes a small piece of the tiramisu cake on his fork. 

John can smell a wave of bitter cacao powder and the smooth, warm hint of Amaretto and says, before he’s thought it through, “I don’t regret it.”

Mycroft’s fork stills for a moment on its way to his mouth, but he doesn’t comment. 

He’s nice to watch. Mycroft’s thin fingers holding his fork, and it disappearing into his mouth. His hands when he takes his small cup of coffee, and brings it up to his lips. 

John knows that he’s being obvious, _eyeing him up_ like that. He doesn’t care. 

Mycroft knows that he’s being watched, too. John can feel a prickle of heat as his eyes connect with his, that familiar sense of _I’ll push you if you push me_. 

John licks his lips. 

Mycroft’s nearing the end of his tiramisu, neatly scraping the plate with his fork; the same for his espresso, the small cup is empty, before John even takes another piece of his own tart. He tastes the sharp berries, then asks, daringly, “You thinking of it?” 

Mycroft looks him over, and then seems to decide to _indulge him_ , “Yes.”

John traces the smooth rim of his coffee cup and thinks, quite clearly, _I would fuck you in a heartbeat_. 

Mycroft’s hands are lying on the table, fingers rubbing over one another. John glances at them. Why not? Why can’t they, really? 

John’s about to suggest that they take this somewhere else, anywhere, when Mycroft abruptly takes a breath, looks away, and says, “Perhaps another coffee?” 

He doesn’t wait for an answer, disappears just a little too smoothly for it to not seem like an escape. 

John closes his eyes briefly, hating himself right now. Right, not going to happen, Mycroft doesn’t want it _so stop hitting on him and think of something else_. 

John taps his toes inside his shoes. Sees that Mycroft forgot to take his teaspoon, it’s left lying on the table, with a bit of espresso in it. John can imagine quite clearly taking that spoon and sucking the small drop of lukewarm coffee out of it. The metallic taste, the cool shape of it in his mouth. Clanging his teeth against the curve of the spoon. Fuck. 

Mycroft really does come back with more coffee. John doesn’t even want one, but at least it’ll give him something to look at. He still hasn’t finished his tart. He reaches out his hand to accept it, and brushes Mycroft’s fingers briefly. Not entirely by accident. Looks at him. 

Mycroft looks back, and there’s attraction in his eyes. _Oh, he wants it, does he?_ Mycroft puts his coffee down and leaves, John glances, towards the bathroom. _Fuckinggod._

John gets up fast. 

He can’t look around. There are other people here, others who’ll notice, but he can’t… John’s at the door before he can think about it. Mycroft can fuck him, if he wants to. John’s pretty sure he can take it. 

John opens the door to a room with two stalls. Mycroft is standing near the sink, and he meets his eyes in the mirror. John feels the heat gathering in his stomach. _He’s never going to agree to do you in a bathroom, what are you thinking._

“John, this is...” Mycroft turns to face him, looking as if he is done fighting this, as well. As if he _needs_ it. “Extremely unwise.” 

“Oh, definitely.” John feels it coil in his stomach now, the hot thrum of anticipation. _You’re insane, Watson._

John takes a step forward. Another, he puts a hand on Mycroft’s hip and Mycroft lets himself be pulled close. The moment their lips meet it’s hard, rough, it’s fucking glorious. 

Mycroft’s lips are open and willing, he sucks his tongue nastily, his breaths hot against his face. John licks a stripe over Mycroft’s neck, sucks there. John runs his fingers through the hair on his nape, gathers it and pulls him in, holds him close to his face while he breathes and kisses and licks. He wants to _crawl inside of him_.

John presses his cock against Mycroft’s leg, grinds his hips, a wave of heat rushing through him all the way to his toes. He feels Mycroft’s hand on his arse in reply, squeezing, pulling him in, _oh hell yeah_. John groans into the kiss, bucks into him, gets a hand to Mycroft’s crotch. Mycroft bumps into the wall next to the sink with a muffled groan.

John’s sucking Mycroft’s lower lip, feels him moan against his mouth. Mycroft’s half hard, but when he squeezes him Mycroft breathes in through his nose, breaks the kiss and leans his head backwards against the wall, eyes closed in ecstasy. _Bloody hell_ , John’s own cock twitches watching him. He can feel the heat of Mycroft’s cock underneath the fabric as he pushes his hand against it, that’s all he’s doing, but Mycroft looks like he’s _about to come_. His mouth is opened, he’s breathing fast. 

John feels the hot, greedy throbbing of his own hard on, pushes Mycroft against the wall even harder, and grinds against him mindlessly.

Mycroft groans into his mouth, “ _John_ …” Spreads his legs for him and leans up as his fingers trace the line of his trousers. 

John wants to open them but he’s fumbling with the buttons. Mycroft’s panting next to his ear; John’s pushing his knuckles against Mycroft’s cock senselessly and feels him _shake_ beneath him. John presses his own cock against Mycroft’s side, and moves his hips unashamedly. He touches in between Mycroft’s legs, feels the softness of his balls underneath the fabric of his trousers. Mycroft leans back and lets him. 

“Open…” John doesn’t have the brainpower for more, just presses his hand against Mycroft’s cock. Mycroft glances at the door, _there’s no lock, right, risky_ , John doesn’t actually give a shit. The stalls look tiny, they will barely fit, and it’s not like it won’t be all too obvious what they’re doing there either if someone walks in. Fuck, “I don’t care.” 

John presses harder, tries to open the buttons himself, and after a moment Mycroft’s hands take over and open them, pull his trousers and pants half-down. John takes him in his hand as soon as he can, warm, hard flesh, and Mycroft closes his eyes for a brief involuntary second, breathes a shuddering breath. 

John opens his own trousers one-handedly. Pulls them down and Mycroft’s hand traces his legs and _dearfuckinggod_ squeezes his arse. 

John’s standing in a bathroom with his trousers around his knees and cock standing up proudly, urgently rubbing it against Mycroft’s bare leg, mouthing at Mycroft’s neck, “I need, I...” 

Mycroft wraps his hand around his cock, starts wanking him. And then looks at him, and traces his fingers behind his balls because he knows, shit, _of course he knows_. John can feel his face heat up, he opens his legs, they don’t have lube, don’t have _time_ for this. And yeah, Mycroft’s fingers only tease his arse but John can feel a wave of goose bumps roll over him anyway. 

John catches a glimpse of his own flushed, wild face in the mirror. _You’d want it, wouldn’t you? You’d want his cock inside of you._

Mycroft’s fingers feels unbearably intrusive and _there_ , John can’t stop feeling them, and Mycroft’s hand is pulling him off _amazingly_ and he’s not going to last, he knows he isn’t. 

John leans onto Mycroft, breathes into his shoulder, and “Jesus fuck!” _Right that, there, now_ , John tenses and he’s coming, almost painfully clenching to feel Mycroft’s fingers. He groans near Mycroft’s ear, licks his neck in thanks. 

He needs to blink to get the wall back into focus as he feels Mycroft let go of him. 

Mycroft looks out of breath as well as he leans back and looks at him. “Do you, uh…?” John’s not sure what he’s asking. 

Mycroft swallows, _hmm, look at him,_ “Please.” 

So John takes Mycroft’s cock in his fist, hard and warm, and jerks him, aware that it’s going to have to be fast, too. 

John moves one hand behind his balls and gets a finger to his arse, then hesitates, but Mycroft moves himself lightly up and down over his finger which is _suggestive as fuck_ , god. _Look at him taking it._

So John pushes his finger in, just the tip, then leans in, gets their mouths together, kisses him in light little nips while he runs his hand over Mycroft’s cock. He wonders if it’s going to get him off fast enough, but he’s breathing like it is, moving like it, so John keeps on going. John turns his mouth near Mycroft’s neck again, licks there. He pulls him off as well as he can, kisses him, moves with him, and makes it hard and fast, aware someone could come in _any second_. 

John whispers into Mycroft’s ear, “Yeah,” and “Come on,” and like with him, it doesn’t take long at all. Mycroft shudders and suddenly his cock feels more slippery between his fingers. He comes.

John gives him one more press of lips, then lets go of him.

They both finished in less than ten minutes, in a bathroom, _Jesus_. John feels a hint of shame, but it’s probably impressive for men their age, really. Mycroft looks properly debauched at least, trousers dropped down to his shoes, revealing bony knees. Cock poking out from underneath his jacket, a small drop off come still pearling from the tip. 

John’s sorry that he didn’t taste it, now. That he didn’t get on his knees and suck him. His eyes linger on Mycroft’s cock as he puts it away. 

Mycroft straightens his trousers, and then washes his hands carefully, with soap. 

John waits by the side until Mycroft dries his hands and without a word, leaves. 

John washes his hands, drinks some water, too, rinses his mouth. He takes his time, lingers a bit; _give the man a chance to make an exit_. But when John comes out he can see Mycroft look up at him from by their table, he’s buttoning up his coat, waiting for him. _He’s a gentleman_ , John remembers. He nearly smiles. 

John walks over, takes his scarf and jacket, and walks past the counter while putting them on. Mycroft is right behind him. John has no idea how obvious they were being, if the owner knows. He doesn’t care. 

It’s still raining outside. John barely notices stepping into it. He meets Mycroft’s eyes.

 _Never should have done it_ , John knows, but fuck it, he’s not all that sorry. 

And no amount of disapproval is disguising the flush of Mycroft’s cheeks, either. John feels himself fighting an entirely inappropriate laugh. _Got off in a bathroom with Mycroft Holmes, never saw that happening._

Mycroft’s face relaxes somewhat, too, when he sees his smile. 

On impulse, John reaches up, and kisses Mycroft. Just a little press of lips, a lick of his tongue. Mycroft lets him do it, too, he traces John’s face with his gloved fingertips for a moment, then lets go. 

John’s hair is getting wet with rain. There’s a drop rolling from his forehead over his nose. He looks to the side, glances into the slightly fogged up window of the coffee shop, and meets the eyes of the woman behind the counter. He looks away quickly. 

Jesus, he doesn’t actually want to say goodbye. But there’s not a lot of choice about it. No? _How about he asks Mycroft to take him home, to fuck him until he can’t remember his own name..._ “Um.” John looks at Mycroft.

Mycroft swallows thickly. “You should go, John.” 

“Right.” Yeah, okay. John turns, and starts walking away, the faint touch of Mycroft’s gloved fingers still playing on his cheek. 

Ten steps, twelve, and he looks back. 

Mycroft is standing there; he’s opened his umbrella now, and is searching for something in his pockets with hurried fingers, cigarettes? John hasn’t smelled any on him, but he can feel the flood of _wantneednow_ just by looking at him. 

He walks on.

 

-

 

John feels fine, walking home. 

_Never content until you’re living on the edge, are you?_ John doesn’t remember which one of his ex-girlfriends said that, or why she’d been angry, but he remembers the accusing tone. He considers that she might have been right. He hasn’t gotten off like that since the army, hard, fast, standing up, but he’s clear-headed, his legs are carrying him steadily through the streets, so fuck dying, today he’s alive and _shagging_.

John reaches 221b, and looks up at the windows. He can’t see Sherlock anywhere, and the fact that he might is still bizarre. He uses his key, calls to Mrs. Hudson without thinking, “Just me!” 

John can hear her responding “Hello, dear!” from somewhere in her kitchen when he’s already halfway up the faded stairs. He opens the door and walks in. He looks around the corner, into the kitchen. 

Sherlock is sitting there, half-heartedly doing something with a Bunsen burner. John’s not sure where he got it from; Mrs. Hudson threw the old one away. John takes his jacket off, his scarf. Steps out of his shoes, too, his feet might be wet. They’re cold anyway. He puts his feet in slippers, and walks past Sherlock to make tea.

Sherlock doesn’t even look up. 

_And to say that I thought that you’d know just by looking at me._

John fills the kettle, puts it on, and leans against the counter. He can hear the rain hitting the windows, giving their kitchen a gloomy mood despite the light over Sherlock’s head. 

“You saw Mycroft.” 

John startles, he didn’t realise that Sherlock was looking at him. His heart starts beating in his throat, _here we go then_. “I did, yeah.” 

“You had _coffee_.” Sherlock’s voice is low. 

“Hm.” John gets milk from the fridge. Gets two cups, and the tea ready. “Dessert, too.” He pours the boiling water, and lets the tea bags soak for a minute, watches them. He’s waiting for the accusation, _it’s obvious, John..._ but there’s nothing. 

Sherlock says nothing more. 

Then again it’s always like this, John thinks, and suddenly he feels anger, bright and sure. He’s always teetering on the edge, waiting for the moment that Sherlock will ask, or do, waiting for him to finally _want him back_. _Need_ him, and maybe it’s all that insane anticipation that makes him feel so raw every damn second of the day. 

He used to like that, John remembers, the feeling of _someday, when the time is right, we’re going to slot together like magnets_. He felt quite comfortable with it, but that was when he was deep-down sure that there would be more days, more tomorrows, years and years of the two of them. Now he knows that that’s not going to happen. Now Sherlock died and came back and now _John’s_ going to die, and he just had a fuck in a bathroom with Mycroft, and now Sherlock isn’t saying a word. 

John removes the tea bags, puts them in the bin, adds some sugar to Sherlock’s, milk to his own. Then he takes Sherlock’s mug in his hand, walks behind Sherlock, and places the tea on the table by leaning over his shoulder. Sherlock stills. Out of consideration or because he’s close and he doesn’t want to bump into him, or because he smells like a hint of Mycroft’s cologne, or because his sleeve is wrinkled in a certain way, or... John doesn’t know. 

Sherlock does look sad, for a broken second. 

And okay, that’s it. “Sherlock?” 

John can’t do this, he’s not about to lie and have that hang between them, too, on top of everything else. “I had sex with him. Mycroft.” 

John moves away, but not fast enough that he doesn’t catch Sherlock’s utterly bewildered look. Oh, so he _didn’t_ know. _Great. Smooth, Watson._

John takes his tea into the living room. Sits down in his chair, and he feels a burst of tension, suddenly, can barely stop himself from digging his nails into the chair. This is it then, this is going to be _it_. 

John can’t hear Sherlock for several minutes, then there’s the scrape of his chair as he gets up, tap turned on and off as he washes his hands. 

John doesn’t move. 

Eventually Sherlock walks into his field of vision. His hands are still wet, either he forgot to dry them or their tea towel has died a brave death inside in the microwave, or while straining blood, or whatever else he did with it. Mrs Hudson has a collection of ruined ones with unmentionable spots and tears. 

“You...” Sherlock says, and then doesn’t seem to know what goes beyond it. 

“Yeah.”

Sherlock stares at him. 

John has an awkward sip of tea. 

Sherlock keeps looking at him, his lips slightly opened, throat working as he swallows. “…with Mycroft.”

“I did, yeah.” John feels a strange kind of pain, saying that. He’s not sure if he’s trying to punish Sherlock by saying it out loud. Whether he’s trying to hurt him back. If Sherlock cares at all that is, but John _wants_ him to be angry. Wants him to scream, “But you’re mine, John.” Just so he can say “I was and then you fucking left.” 

But Sherlock just blinks, and says, “Oh.” 

Then nothing. 

He’s not running off either, or accusing him, maybe he just genuinely doesn’t care, John thinks. Maybe it really doesn’t mean a thing to him. Maybe it’s fine, and Sherlock will wish them lots of happiness and then that’ll be it. 

So after a while of staring at Sherlock, at the carpet, at the wall, John says, not sure what else to say, “What do you want for dinner?” 

Sherlock seems to answer on auto-pilot. “Pasta maybe. The thing with the tomato sauce? We have an onion.” 

John nods, “Okay,” and walks towards the fridge, feeling as if he’s a stranger in his own flat, like he doesn’t know himself at all. Or Sherlock, really. 

He gets the onion.

 

 

 

 

 


	5. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft hasn’t smoked in months, but still he finds himself in front of a coffee shop, in the cold rain, erratically searching for a cigarette.

He just...

 _John._

It was nothing of consequence, Mycroft thinks, just an undignified _scrabbling of want_. He puts a cigarette between his lips with wet hands, and lights it. 

Discounts John’s soft kiss at the end. 

The rain is splattering on his umbrella, reaching underneath as well, getting on his coat and his trouser legs. Mycroft inhales the acrid smoke of his cigarette, feels it curl over his tongue and burn the back of his throat.

 _Release_ , he thinks, turning it over in his mind. Surely that is the word one wants to use, there was a need and John sought to fulfil it. 

He blows out a cloud of smoke, knowing he’ll be able to smell it on himself for hours now, that it will leave its scent in the fabric of his suit and coat as a subtle, but irritating reference. 

Mycroft is aware that he has grown _attached_ to John. The image of John, the sound of his voice, his entire _presence_ has become a jagged warmth underneath his skin, uneasily so. Mycroft can still feel the rough edge of John’s stubble move over his lips, over his neck. The ache of his finger inside of him. 

But it was grabbing, and licking, and coming. Base biology, nothing more. 

Mycroft throws his cigarette away, a faint hiss as it drowns on the wet pavement, and walks to his car.

He’ll be working late tonight to make up for the time he spent with John. 

He’s driving, looking at the steamed up windows and waiting by a crossroads for the light to turn green, when his phone buzzes. He takes his mobile out of his coat pocket while he’s waiting and opens the message. It’s from Sherlock. 

“ _You and John. SH_ ” 

Mycroft puts the phone down on the seat next to him. 

Then, exactly two miles later, parks on the side of the road and sits still in the car. He tilts his head back against the headrest, and closes his eyes for a brief second. Opens them to watch the grey dotted pattern of raindrops fall on the windscreen. The phone feels smooth in his hand, hot even, where the battery meets the back. He quickly swipes the screen, and types. 

“ _Yes. MH._ ” 

 

-

 

Despite his intention to work, Mycroft goes home earlier than he usually does. He steps into the cool darkness of his house, lights a fire in the library, and sits there, in a leatherback chair. Unwilling to undress, and deal with a body that wants nothing more than to relive John’s touch. Unwilling to even think of it. 

He pours himself a drink. 

He takes Tolstoy, but then gives up on him near-immediately. Takes Plato instead, _The Republic_ , even though he has read it many times, he finds the rhythms of rhetoric pleasing. The way it circles around conclusions, builds up in a logical, but imperfect way. Except not tonight, his mind wanders. 

John’s mouth, rough against his. The desperation in his eyes. The longing to stroke the lines of tension off his face, to _take it all and make it better_. Mycroft grips down on the memory. He separates the sensations, and deletes them, one by one. They’ll be back, in absolute clarity, but he feels that his mind deserves the flagellation. 

He sips his drink, conscious that it is becoming a habit, and that it shouldn’t be. 

He will need to stay away from Baker Street. No more texts, make certain that he maintains his distance, and John will be pulled into Sherlock’s frantic life again easily enough. _Control your affections. Do not place them where they are not needed._

Mycroft’s phone buzzes, again, the eighth message from Sherlock tonight and part of him wants to warn Sherlock against it. _Do not allow desire to touch you, Sherlock. You won’t like it when it does._

But it’s too late. He’s years too late with saying that, so why would he try. Sherlock wouldn’t listen, anyway. He has loved John from the moment that he met him.

Mycroft puts his glass to the side, warm from having been held in his hand for too long and types slowly, finger hovering over the send button for a second. “ _I will stay away. You have my word. MH_ ” 

Mycroft is listening to the comforting tick of the clock, the crackling of the dying fire, and on his fourth drink of the evening when his phone rings. He reaches for it slowly - certain that it will be Sherlock, cursing him, threatening him. He’s surprised that he hasn’t shown up yet. 

But no, it’s John himself. 

“Hi.” John’s keeping his voice low, and he sounds as if he is reclined. “Sorry, I know it’s late.” Calling from his bed, Mycroft assumes. “But I, um, told Sherlock.”

“I am aware, he has messaged me.” Mycroft strokes the leaves of his book, feels the tiny bite of the page edges. “Several times.” 

“...oh.” 

Mycroft imagines what John looks like, in bed. He has been there only once, when 221b was uninhabited but he remembers the lamp by the bed and imagines it lit now, throwing a halo of light against the wall. Unless John is lying in the dark, maybe with his curtains opened, seeing the vague shapes of clouds passing by in the muddled sky.

“What we... um. Yeah, what we did today...”

 _We shall never speak of it again._ “It is of no consequence.” That much should be obvious even to John. “I shall stay away from Baker Street.” 

“What?” John breathes. “No, look, I’m sorry, but…” 

“There is no reason to apologise; you do not owe me anything.” Strange how vapid those words feel in his mouth. 

Mycroft swallows, _end it_ , he reminds himself. _It’s time to finish this madness._ “I believe it would be best if you do not contact me again, John.” He does not wait for the reply, simply ends the call. 

Dangles the phone between his fingertips for a long moment, then pushes the book aside, and reaches for a file. 

He’s going to work tonight. 

 

-

 

Days pass without a word from either Sherlock or John. 

Mycroft drinks bitter coffees. Stops by bakeries on the way to work before they’re even open, and gets still-warm pain-au-raisins and pain-au-chocolats to take in, and eats them in his office. Once he orders a large latte, and sips it carefully. 

He gets several hours of work done every morning before Anthea even comes in, and several hours more after she leaves. 

He is unable to forget. 

It was the most unwise encounter he has had in many years, and yet his mind returns to it constantly. The want in John’s eyes. The feeling of his hands grabbing him, pushing and pulling, his whole body begging to be touched. 

Mycroft knew, perhaps, that it would happen, meeting John like that. On some level, he had wanted it to. 

And he regrets it, absolutely; he regrets the fact that he chose a moment of desire with John over their friendship, over his duty to Sherlock. But the main regret Mycroft has, and which perhaps speaks even more to his character, is not bringing John back to his home, instead. That he did not treat him to a lavish dinner, and then undress him, slowly. That he did not take his time in kissing him. That he did not have John in his bed, just once. 

The more days that pass without a word, the more Mycroft realises that John will not insist. That he will be forgotten easily. 

Mycroft eats in restaurants a couple of times by himself, but he finds the experience lacking. He works, but there is a limit to how much he can micro-manage before he is intruding on Anthea’s duties and interfering with other departments unnecessarily. The Diogenes Club seems soulless, his home cold. 

He takes the effort to visit the British Museum on an empty evening, when it is closed to the public of course - Mycroft does not care for navigating crowds, and he is allowed private access. But it does little to lighten his mood. The museum is dark. His footsteps are nothing but echoes on the shining marble floors. The exhibitions seem uninspiring. All he can think of is how much John might have enjoyed this, and why he never invited him when he had the chance. 

On top of that it will be Christmas in a couple of weeks.

Mycroft has always detested the occasion, and this year is no exception. Bland well-wishes, a superficial show of family and misplaced gratitude, he would much rather just avoid it. 

He does phone Mummy, of course, a brief conversation where he cites his duties and the annoyance of travel, and where she wishes him the very best. He barely needs to say a word himself. She already has a narrative of who he is, and why he does what he does, all he needs to do is remind her of it. 

Mycroft gives her Sherlock’s best wishes as well, knowing that he’ll most likely forget. 

 

-

 

Mycroft is in a meeting room, talking to contacts from Nigeria and Panama. They are an hour into discussing a certain CIA plot, when suddenly his phone buzzes and he feels a small jolt thinking that it might be… but no, it’s Anthea’s reminder to sign the treaty at five. 

Mycroft puts his phone down, smiles reassuringly at his guests, and goes on. 

He has gotten so used to receiving texts from John several times a day that it is taking him a while to learn not to expect them, that is all. 

A couple of minutes later his phone rings. Mycroft discreetly checks the screen by tilting it, then gets up, and mumbles distractedly, “Excuse me.” _Sherlock._

Mycroft takes the call in the hallway, “Yes?” He raises an eyebrow, tries for scathing, “Anything you need?” It won’t do to show that he is affected by this; he needs to push it back into normalcy. 

There’s a second of silence, and then Sherlock’s voice, dull, void of emotion, “John had a seizure. He lost consciousness about forty minutes ago.” 

And Mycroft has to breathe, slowly. He can feel his knees subtly buckle. 

“They suspect a brain bleed.”

Mycroft’s mind focuses on several tracks at once, possible reasons why, how. “What do you need?”

Sherlock doesn’t hesitate, “Research on similar instances, correlation with his cancer.”

“Noted.” Mycroft glances at the clock, and mentally calculates the route to the hospital. “I will be there in twenty minutes.” 

Everything past that is a rush. 

Mycroft gets Anthea on the phone, although she is only in the next room. He gives her precise instructions on how to end the meeting while grabbing his coat from his office and walking out of the building, and he’s already in the car when he puts his phone down to exit the garage. He will drive himself. 

Anthea calls back after she’s talked to their contact in the hospital and calculated the minutes to get a specialist there by air versus how long John will be under. It’s a dazzle of words and ideas passed between them, yet the call does not occupy Mycroft’s mind completely. The drive feels unreasonably extensive. London is busy, traffic everywhere. He is going fast but yet the road does not disappear beneath his wheels quickly enough. 

Mycroft walks into the hospital still on the phone, glowering at whoever endeavours to step in his way. 

The lift is slow, smells like antiseptic and hospital. It brings such a thick haze of memory that Mycroft can almost feel the warmth of the tagine in his hands. It’s only been months since he was here last for John. 

He exits onto the right floor for surgery and is brusque with the doctor, Mycroft is in no mood to entertain their ridiculously ineffective notions of privacy. Sherlock is there, in a long stretch of corridor, and he walks up immediately, “Do you have the rates of occurrence on this?” 

“Not on me, no,” Mycroft gets Anthea back on the line. 

There’s only one chair where Sherlock has been sitting, but impressively soon a second appears. They both sit down. _An expression of sentiment will be unwanted_ , Mycroft thinks, so he says nothing. 

Those doors at the end of the corridor lead to the operating theatre. Mycroft finds his gaze drifting towards them. 

They get an update fairly soon after, the doctors opened John’s skull to relieve the pressure on his brain. The bleed was most likely caused by the spread of his cancer, but he will need another MRI scan to be sure. 

As the minutes tick on, Mycroft remembers John’s hesitant kiss on that bench in Regent’s Park.

John eating, laughing. His smiles. 

Sherlock is taking it better than Mycroft had imagined he would. He questions doctors as if they are the enemy, he is antsy, ready to do something, anything, but he stays in control. 

Slowly the reports become less severe. 

John is stable. Mycroft gets a call from another assistant, a recent trainee, who asks, “For the paperwork, sir, I notice that he’s not your next of kin, so can I put Mr. Watson down as your significant other?” and Mycroft can feel the indignation _stab him_. 

“That would be _Doctor_ Watson, and if you have any wish for a further career you would do well _not to ask senseless questions_.” He can actually feel his heart thump in anger as he ends the call. 

Sherlock glances at him. Then says, with only a low hint of condemnation, “You love him.” 

Mycroft considers a lie, _absolutely not, when have I ever been known to love anyone_ , but what is love, anyway, other than suffering. It does not mean anything. “Does it matter?” 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. Goes back to looking at his phone, at the white wall, and the fluorescent lights. 

It takes three hours before they can go near John and Mycroft stays in that corridor, next to Sherlock, sitting down, then paces back and forth. 

When they get called in to see John in intensive care, Mycroft considers taking a step back and going home. But he follows Sherlock in instead. 

John is lying very still, his face so sunken and ashen that he does not look alive, truly. There is a tube going down his throat, a respirator meant to help him breathe. Sherlock stands over the bed and Mycroft averts his eyes. 

Neither of them touches John. 

They wait there, listening to the machines, looking at John’s sedated form. He’ll be kept like this until his intracranial pressure goes down. 

Mycroft has no idea what is going around in Sherlock’s mind and he would never dare to ask, but Mycroft himself feels the stark realisation that all the money, power and influence in the world could not make John rise right now. None of what he has can help beyond what he has already. 

Sherlock hasn’t told him to leave, so Mycroft stays by John’s side as well, through the night. 

Sherlock dozes off somewhere near the morning, and Mycroft shushes any of the personnel coming by to check on John so Sherlock can sleep. He does not sleep at all himself. 

In the early morning Mycroft stands up quietly on stiff legs, and walks out. He makes a brief stop at home to shower and change clothes, and then goes in to work. 

Anthea meets him in the hallway, informs him that she’s arranged for food to be brought to Sherlock, and sent an assistant to bring him clothes and toiletries from Baker Street. Mycroft looks at her and thinks harshly, _I despise that you know what to do so very well_. 

Anthea does not ask about John. 

But she does, somehow, ensure that no one talks to him that day. Technically he should have been in several meetings, Mycroft is quite certain. But instead he simply deals with heaps of paperwork and some calls from the dim sanctuary of his office. 

He gets a report from the medical staff, every hour, on the hour. They are waiting for the bleed to stop on its own, and for the pressure to go down. It hasn’t, yet, and throughout the evening, the night, the next day, the day after that, the wording remains the same. 

Mycroft sits behind his desk and presses the heels of his hands to his cheekbones, to the heated feeling of his forehead. 

He tries to find some grace in the fact that he was able to know John in the last year, much more so than he ever did in the years before. That he was able to make him laugh, a sound that gave him such unexpected pleasure to hear. But it is difficult to find any worth in that thought, instead it feels profanely malicious, Mycroft thinks, that he was allowed to desire John, and then for him to be gone. 

It might have been infinitely kinder to never have known John at all. 

Mycroft tells Anthea that he will take meetings anyway, just to get away from his own thoughts. She gives him a doubtful look, but he does. The first one is about oil reserves in Saudi-Arabia, and the vacuum in power-infrastructure that the recent struggles have left. The meeting after that is about the Israeli defence system. Mycroft is arguing quite tensely, _we do not need to sacrifice more lives over a territorial squabble_ , when, in rapid succession, his phone starts vibrating again and again in his pocket. 

Mycroft excuses himself and walks to the hallway before facing it. Messages from the doctors, but one from Sherlock that he reads first, “ _Pressure has stabilised - they’re going to wake him up. SH_ ” 

Mycroft closes his eyes, and breathes out slowly. 

He does go back to the meeting, but he gives a small nod to Anthea. She has heard the reports from the hospital as well, of course, and her smile is genuine. 

He keeps a close eye on his messages in the following hours. 

“ _No longer on ventilator. SH_ ” 

“ _Woozy, some pain, but talking. SH_ ” 

The last one is, “ _He says to come by. SH_ ” 

And Mycroft cannot refuse. He finishes his work for the day, and then makes the drive to the hospital himself. 

He does hesitate, for one lurching second, while standing in the corridor, because while the invitation was genuine he believes, he is not needed here. He knows that he is not, and that he will only interfere. 

But Mycroft knocks on the door, and opens it. 

The first thing he sees is Sherlock’s attentive gaze. Then John, still reclined in a bed, but his face tilted towards him. The intubation is gone. Mycroft tries to appear confident. “Risen from the dead, John?” 

John smiles weakly from his bed, not crookedly, Mycroft notes, John’s facial muscles have not been affected. 

“Not risen yet.” John’s voice is barely above a whisper: he’s hoarse from the intubation, and it is rather difficult to understand him, but Mycroft has listened to John often enough to know the tilt of his voice. “Working on it.” 

Sherlock is altogether too relieved that John is talking to bother with antagonising him, Mycroft thinks, but still he doubts whether to pull up a chair for himself, or just leave. He compromises by standing. 

“Just like Jesus.” John says quietly from the bed. He waves his hand, indicating Sherlock and himself, but he’s looking at Mycroft. “The both of us. Always dying and coming back.” 

_He is joking_ , and the thought of that after seeing him so still is startlingly wonderful. Mycroft meets John’s eyes, and nods gravely. “You might consider starting a religion.” After a pause, he says, “I would suggest some form of cult.” 

John grins weakly. 

Mycroft does not intend to stay at all, but Sherlock does not say a word and John seems too tired to talk, so he does, about not much at all. He is aware that his eyes are fixed on John’s face. That he is smiling too genuinely, perhaps, but it is difficult to know what else would be appropriate. 

When John drifts off into sleep Mycroft shares the latest research on radiation with Sherlock. He has read most of it himself already, so he quietly speaks statistics, doctors, and treatments, and Sherlock argues back, showing no sign of being especially angry at him. It might still come. 

The tumour cannot be removed, but John was lucky. It’s not the end yet. 

Mycroft leaves after that. He does not go back to the hospital again, even though he gets the impression that he would be welcome to. But there is no reason to push himself onto them. 

Sherlock does continue to text information in the next weeks, which surprises Mycroft. John does as well, and so Mycroft is the first to know it when John sits up. When John eats, and walks, and is eventually, released from the hospital. Mycroft knows the projections of John’s recovery. He knows about John’s muscle weakness and progress, considers the prospects of chemo versus radiation along with the both of them. 

And Christmas does appear, but it feels less gloomy than Mycroft had anticipated. _Not all is broken._

On Christmas Eve Mycroft takes a bottle of single malt, a fine year, and has a glass, standing in his darkened living room. He waits until his grandfather clock hits twelve exactly, announcing it in heavy chimes, and then sends to Sherlock’s phone, “ _Merry Christmas, Sherlock. MH_ ” And to John’s, “ _Merry Christmas, John. MH_ ” in careful symmetry. 

Mycroft goes upstairs, runs a hot bath, and receives, “ _You hate Christmas. SH_ ” right before he steps in. 

Mycroft answers, sitting in the bathtub, “ _Indeed, ghastly. So have a merry one, will you. MH_ ” 

After the bath Mycroft retreats to his bed, and takes a book. It’s Christmas Eve, so Dickens, naturally. He is reading intently and is quite startled when his phone rings, but is fast to grab it. He glances at the screen, and yes, it is, “John?” 

Hi,” John sounds confident, his voice notably stronger now. “It’s not, you’re not celebrating or anything?” _It is good to hear him._

“I am at home,” Mycroft breathes out; relieved that it is a social call, somewhat surprised, too, gladly so. 

“I couldn’t sleep. And, you know, Christmas Eve, so.” John hesitates. “You doing anything special?” 

Mycroft considers. If John would call slowly sipping on a glass of scotch while reading, then yes, otherwise... “I am reading in bed. But I did open a bottle of _Macallan_.” 

It amuses John; Mycroft can hear his smile through the line. “Classy. Don’t think I’ve ever heard you drunk. Does it make a difference?” 

“All it means currently is that I can read Dickens and not personally want to assault the narrator for being overly bleak, simple and sentimental.” 

John laughs. “You do know how to party.” 

Mycroft realises he is smiling as well. “Indeed.” 

He _cannot_ , he reminds himself, _want John_. 

But maybe it is the slight warmth of the alcohol, or the fact that John’s voice feels like something sorely missed, but he does not end the call, either. He asks John how he is, and they talk, easily, familiarly, until John’s voice starts sounding tired. 

Mycroft wishes him a good night, and goes to sleep himself as well, feeling curiously elated. 

 

-

 

It’s the last day of the year, and Mycroft is smoking a furtive cigarette behind the pillars of Westminster Abbey. It dulls his sense of smell somewhat, he’s found. Or perhaps it just overwhelms it, either way; it is a welcome filter between himself and the world. 

He has gotten an array of texts in the past week from both John and Sherlock, but he has still not gone by Baker Street himself. 

“ _I’m pretty sure the cushion of this sofa is shaped exactly like my arse by now. JW_ ” 

“ _Suggestion for season-related baked goods? SH_ ”

Then “ _Sherlock is currently microwaving mince pies. Was that you, or do I need to be afraid? JW_ ”

Then, more recently, “ _Bored, fucking bored. JW_ ” and “ _There are only so many times that I can watch Bond kill the baddies before I start rooting for them. No offence. JW_ ” 

And yesterday, “ _Any chance that I can see you? JW_ ”

Mycroft stared at that text for longer than he would wish to admit. It’s not that he does not want to; it’s simply that it could be a bad idea to get into the habit of meeting John again. But in the end he cannot refuse him. 

Mycroft has ordered a driver to collect John from Baker Street, and to not inform him where he is going. 

He might have done something slightly excessive. Mycroft’s standing by the large doors to the Abbey. It smells tomb-like, forgotten. Like cold, wet stone and dust. But it is not as if a fake bomb threat is difficult to arrange, actually, and the police force can use the practice. 

He checks his phone in his pocket, two minutes to go. 

He sees a lonely black car drive up in the distance, pass through the police blockades, and then through the wrought iron fence. Mycroft throws his cigarette to the ground, and grinds it with his shoe into the asphalt. It takes long seconds before the car’s close. 

Mycroft is entirely alone, there are no other people anywhere near, and the silence is rather unusual for central London. He finds it sublime; it is amplifying every single sound. He can hear the car’s engine. The click when John opens the door, his slow footsteps as he walks up, the clank of his cane as it hits the ground. The sound of his jacket as he moves. 

Big Ben strikes in the distance. He’s exactly on time. 

John labouriously walks up to him. He’s slightly out of breath, but he seems to be in a good mood. “Kidnapping me, Mycroft? Really, it’s been a while.” 

John looks back at the row of police cars in the distance, and smiles. “You could have just called, you know.”

“Ah, but that would not have had the same _mystique_.” 

“True.” John grins. He seems as if he might have thought it somewhat exciting.

Mycroft slowly, conscious of John’s pace, walks through the large, oak doors. They’re throwing a square of light into the cool dark. He considered bringing John a coffee, but then decided against it, realising that it might be difficult to coordinate for him to walk and drink at the same time. Looking at him now, Mycroft is glad that he did not. No reason to embarrass him. 

John follows him. “So there’s no one here?” John turns around, and his voice echoes. “No one at all?” 

_Such is the protocol for bomb threats._ It is rather grim, this, Mycroft is aware, but he thought... Perhaps it will be lost on John why he chose to come here. “Have you visited before?” 

John is looking up at the high ceilings. “As a kid, and with Sherlock once, we chased someone though here.” John smiles, “Never took the time to stand still though.” 

Mycroft watched the CCTV last night. It was odd to see the image of a younger John running, moving so confidently. Mycroft can’t help but take John in now and compare. He still seems gaunt. He should not make him walk much. Still, he can see the obvious fascination on John’s face as he looks around. 

It’s fairly dark inside, but the dome above their heads is throwing pillars of daylight down on the tiles, dust dancing freely within them.

“Actually, I’ve always wanted to come back, but...” John’s voice peters out and he looks at him. 

Yes. 

“You brought me here because _months ago_ I said that I wanted to...?” John shakes his head. “Of course, who am I asking?” 

Mycroft feels a small smile play around his lips. He has always appreciated Westminster Abbey himself. He can feel the solemn strength of it, even now. 

Some buildings are meant to be inhabited, he thinks, while others are meant to stand the grind of time, to inspire and awe, to be seen in loneliness. 

But Mycroft’s gaze does not seek the architecture, but the way that John reaches out his hand towards the wood carvings on the walls. The way his eyes skim down to read the names engraved on the ground, and how they widen when it is a name that he recognises. “Charles Darwin, really?”

“Yes, he is buried here.” It was worth the trouble, Mycroft thinks, to see John’s obvious appreciation. And, more covertly, _he does not seem to find it dull at least_. 

“Sherlock would like that. He’s been trying to do the experiment with insectivorous plants in our kitchen.”

Mycroft nods. Sherlock always did have a soft spot for biology. 

John walks further, his cane a series of clangs on the stone. Mycroft follows him. “There has been worship in this place for over a thousand years. The floor you are standing on dates from 1268.” 

John looks down at the faded tiles beneath his feet. “Better make sure not to scratch it, then.” 

Mycroft does not smile, but it takes somewhat of an effort. 

They wander the premises, slowly, Mycroft every once in a while adding a detail of note, but mainly they are quiet, and he soaks up the feeling of John’s company. The sight of him. The way the light falls onto John’s shoulders. 

After a full circle, Mycroft leads John into the cloister garden. The winter midday light is dull. If possible, it is even quieter here; it does not feel as if they are in London at all. John lowers himself onto a bench carefully enough that he is most likely fatigued. He seems pleased, though. 

Mycroft sits down next to him. 

John balances his cane against the side of the bench. Looking at him, Mycroft briefly and unbiddenly remembers the texture of John’s lips against his own. “Are you recovering well?”

“Fine. Still know how to use this, I guess.” John touches his cane. 

There is little that Mycroft can say to that. He does not wish to offer false reassurance; John is lucky to be alive at all. 

“So, um.” John suddenly sounds serious. “Look - sorry. About Sherlock, telling him.” 

Mycroft had anticipated that this would be on John’s mind. _Yes, Sherlock knows, and he has found it in himself not to condemn us both for it, so we should be glad, truly._ “It was yours to tell.”

John nods, and does not say more. 

A silence falls. 

Mycroft thought about bringing something to eat, something small and sweet, perhaps. Chocolate truffles with a hint of chilli powder, or coffee macaroons, something to share with John right here, on this bench. But he decided against it, those moments are over between them. 

Mycroft is aware that he will never mirror Sherlock’s madness about John, Sherlock’s fervour. But he does have something else he can offer John today, and he intends to. So he says, cautiously, “When your cancer spreads further.” 

John’s shoulders tense. 

There is no use in avoiding the subject, and yet Mycroft feels a subtle chill in saying it out loud. _When you are near death._ He forces himself to say, “If there are certain conditions under which you would not wish to be kept alive, I can make certain that your instructions are followed.” 

John breathes out, slowly. Mycroft catches some relief evident in his face. “Yeah, I’ll… I was going to write it down, have it notarised or something, can you take care of that?” 

Mycroft nods, _of course_. 

There’s a lone bird flying through the garden in an uneven arc. They both track its movements. 

John coughs, and then looks down to the grass in front of his feet. “So, getting Sherlock anything for his birthday?” 

Mycroft does not mind the abrupt change in topic; he has said what he needed to. “I traditionally give him clothing.” Books, irregularly. The odd antique. But mainly suits, dressing gowns, shoes throughout the years. Mycroft generally will order something for Sherlock whenever he is at his personal tailor, regardless of the season or occasion; he knows Sherlock’s measurements, naturally. 

Mycroft considers John’s question. Sherlock does not care much for birthdays, but he will not be averse to spending time with John. “Do you wish to take him to dinner?” 

John’s eyes linger on his for a second. 

“There is a Greek place I believe he would enjoy; it was the scene of a double murder a couple of years back. But I know you prefer a cuisine that leans towards spice.” 

John swallows and looks away. Mycroft doesn’t know why, surely this is not a difficult topic? “I can make the reservations, if you wish.” Pay for it, naturally. 

John suddenly looks at him again, something open in his eyes. Then laughs, “God, I’ve missed you.”

Mycroft feels a bit taken aback. 

Still, he feels a curious sense of warmth as well, hearing John say that. He thinks about it, then carefully replies, “I have missed your company as well, John.” It is very much true. But yet he finds the words rather… loaded. 

John seems to agree. 

He takes a shuddering breath, and Mycroft feels strangely vulnerable for a brief moment. Like a statue, leaning back on a cold bench, like a cocoon of skin and bones, holding fragile things underneath. 

John’s hand reaches out towards him, and Mycroft can hear it, first, the faint rustle of movement, before he can feel John’s fingers settling over his hand and move into a faint caress. _This is not friendship, John._

The bird is moving lightly over the grass. It’s a robin. 

Mycroft wants to let John’s fingers trail over him. To lean over and take John’s face in his hands and kiss him. So much so that he can feel something harsh lock the back of his throat. He forces himself to look to the side, _focus, you are letting your desire for him overwhelm everything else_. It is impossible not to remember the feeling of John’s mouth, searching, moving against him in perfect detail. 

But no matter how much his entire body is screaming for it, he _can_ control his actions. Mycroft shakily pulls his hand away from John’s and faces him. “I cannot.”

John takes a hard breath, hides his frustration. “Is it because of Sherlock…” John frowns, “somehow?”

Mycroft blinks. Does John not know? Has Sherlock not told him, not at all? Not even when he was in the hospital? How can he not have done that? How can he have let another day, another _hour_ pass by where… He swallows. “I have given him my word.” 

John looks surprised at that, “Seriously?” 

Mycroft feels a little unsettled. “He is my brother, John.” He adds, weakly, “And the two of you have always been a more natural match.”

“Really?” John looks angry, he uses his cane to stand, with effort, “Are you fucking _kidding me_? What makes you even think that...” Then sighs. “Right.” He presses his hand over his forehead. 

“John...” Mycroft wishes to tell him that he understands, that Sherlock has always been the one that John cares for, that he has seen him grieve and ache for him. 

But John shakes his head, and looks at him. “ _Don’t_ \- okay?” 

Mycroft nods, not entirely certain what John wants him to do. But John looks at him for a moment more, then turns, and walks away, angrily. 

Mycroft feels the urge to get up and walk after him, to escort him to the car at the very least, but he will not. After a moment, he searches his pockets, and lights another cigarette. _John is not yours and he never will be._

The bird is on the other end of the garden now. 

Mycroft waits until John is definitely gone before he walks back inside past the same rough stones.

And he can barely hear it, at first, but it is too quiet not to. The space is too large for him not to notice, there is someone else there. There’s an echo, not caused by his own footsteps. Mycroft feels a sharp chill, _that is not John_ , as he looks back. 

About thirty paces behind him, mostly shrouded by shadow, Sherlock makes no attempt to hide. 

Mycroft swallows. _He should have known._

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, his eyes dark as embers, and then walks outside. He bangs the door behind him with an enormous sound that pushes up dust and seems to echo for long, long seconds.

 

 

 

 

 


	6. (Sherlock)

 

 

Sherlock leaves Westminster Abbey, crosses the bridge and quickly walks along the South Bank, his coat flapping around his legs. 

It’s getting dark, the afternoon gloom is turning into dusk. 

He leans into the wind and looks at the Thames. His eyes feel dull; as if he’s had them open for too long, trained on the dancing waves, catching white, dizzying peaks between the nearly black water. 

Being back has been unbearable. 

_John falling with a hard thump on the kitchen floor, seizing._ Sherlock pushes the image away, but it doesn’t work, he has been doing that, ignoring it, again and again. It doesn’t work, and he understands now, why people murder for this feeling. Why people gut and terrorise, do what they never thought they were capable of, all to make someone else whole again. 

Sherlock did everything, _all of it_ \- two years of pain and torture and loneliness - for John. Thinking that if only he made it through John would be waiting for him at the end, happy to have him back. And the opposite has been true. How he faked his own death and defeated Moriarty doesn’t seem to matter. Why he did it. That he did, no one cares. Everyone’s life went on, except his own. John’s most of all, Sherlock thinks, John doesn’t want him anymore. 

Sherlock went to a bakery a couple of days ago. Mycroft texted him the address, and he picked up half a dozen mince pies, then heated them up in the microwave for John. They were so hot inside that Sherlock burned his mouth, but he didn’t say anything, because John was smiling and he seemed happy for once. 

His tongue still feels raw when he runs it against his teeth. 

 

-

 

When Sherlock walks up the stairs of 221b and opens the door, it’s well into the evening. 

John is there, sitting on the sofa. Pretending to read, but only pretending to because as soon as he walks in, John aims his paper to the floor and says, clearly still _annoyed_ , “Mycroft. You told him to stay away.”

Sherlock pauses, halfway into unbuttoning his coat. “Yes.” Of course he did. 

“Why?” John leans forward, and stands up by supporting himself on the coffee table. “So I can’t have anyone?” 

John’s hand spasms, Sherlock is surprised to notice. 

“ _Hmmm?_ That it? Can’t care for anyone else but you? Not allowed to _fuck_ anyone just in case that someday you might think about it and then I’ll have to be here, _waiting_?” 

Sherlock stills. _No, John…_

“Well, I’m here!” John motions at himself. “Right here, last chance, get it before it’s gone, that what you want?”

Sherlock swallows heavily. _Yes._

“Yeah, I didn’t think so.” John looks away, bristles. 

“And I, I deserve some of this. Something good, I do, _actually_.” John looks back with something dark in his eyes, “You owe me at least a little bit of happiness, Sherlock.” John breathes, “So let me have it, I’m serious.” 

“...with Mycroft,” Sherlock says faintly. It still sounds utterly unbelievable, and yet. John hates him. 

“Yeah. With _Mycroft_ ,” John’s sounding tired. He laughs, a broken sound, “If he’ll have me.”

Sherlock feels an overwhelming pressure rise in his throat. He should have known, should _seen_ it but still he didn’t really think that... 

“Sherlock,” John faces him straight on. “I need to know: do you want me? At all? Because if you do then this is your,” he seems more sure as he goes on, “ _Our_ , last chance, right here.” John nods, decisive. “Right now.” 

Sherlock reaches out. 

He half expects to get hit in the face again as he touches the fabric of John’s jumper. John leans into it, for a moment, and Sherlock feels a flash of relief, _John will understand, he can’t leave, it will be all right..._

Then John shakes him off. “Don’t.” He sighs. 

Sherlock touches John again, puts his hand right back. There’s nothing to lose now. _You’re leaving me anyway._

John tilts his head, and there’s something tight in his voice, “Sherlock…” 

Sherlock shivers. _Yes._ He needs to convince John, do what John wants; he _needs_ to, so he, quickly, awkwardly, gets down on his knees. 

John sucks in a shocked breath. 

The floor’s hard, and dusty. Sherlock puts his hands on John’s jeans, just on his calves, looks up, and his voice only croaks a little, “John.” _I am sorry._

John eyes him consideringly, as if he’s trying to decide whether he’s just playing at this, or whether he’s serious. Sherlock isn’t sure himself. It doesn’t matter. He runs his hands up, over John’s legs, past the bumps of John’s knees, slowly. He feels the rough fabric, and the slim line of John’s legs underneath. He watches John. Sees his anger concentrate, somehow. 

Then goes higher, touches the insides of his legs. 

John unzips his jeans, fast, and Sherlock can feel his throat close up. He always thought that it would be beautiful, the first time. 

It’s not. 

John pushes his trousers down, his pants. His cock is right there. And Sherlock knows how to do this, at least, how to play at... Sherlock opens his mouth, and takes it between his lips, dry, startlingly warm and salty. It’s simple. 

John swears, quietly, “Fuck”. 

Sherlock can feel his spit slicking John’s cock. It fills his mouth, and bumps the back of his throat. John starts moving, carefully, still, in small thrusts. 

They should have done this when he came back, Sherlock thinks. _He should have gone straight to his knees._ He should have let John do this again and again, fist his hand in his hair, push inside of him - John can hate him if only he’ll touch him.

It’s strangely quiet. Sherlock can hear every one of John’s rough breaths and the rustling of his trousers between his legs as he moves back and forth. His own breathing is a desperate whine in his ears. Sherlock tries not to choke. His mouth is opened wide, his nose is brushing John’s pubic hair. His legs are straining already. John goes on, back and forth, enough it doesn’t feel like him anymore, just hard flesh rubbing Sherlock’s tongue and hitting his throat. 

Sherlock closes his eyes, wills himself to open his throat more for John, to do this _right_. But there’s burning on the edges of his eyes, somehow. It’s hard to breathe, and he can feel snot fill his nose. No, _no_. 

John notices, suddenly breaks his rhythm, and pulls out of his mouth. “Shit.” 

Sherlock gulps in a breath, swallows, his throat feels raw, and he can still feel the shape of John in his mouth even though he’s not there.

“You all right?” 

John’s erection is bopping, red and shiny-wet with spit in front of his eyes. Sherlock can’t stop looking at it. 

“Fuck, I thought you _wanted_ to…” John puts a hand to his elbow, maybe to help him up but Sherlock slides his fingers over John’s, follows the skin and bone of his wrist into his sleeve, and holds on hard. _I always wanted to._

Sherlock uses his grip on John’s arm to pull him down. _I don’t know how to love you, John._

John kneels down, too, all eyes and lips, blurred, so close. Sherlock pulls at him, and then it’s his warm mouth half-opened against his. It’s nearly a kiss but Sherlock keeps on pulling until John falls over him, all hard weight and hips and shoulders and knees, and it’s exactly what he wanted, being crushed under John, being _whole_. 

But John holds himself back, John says, “Ow,” and “Are you okay?” John’s hand settles on his shoulder, so Sherlock takes it, quickly, before he goes, and puts it over his throat again, like it was on the tarmac. 

He looks at John. _Do it. Have revenge._

John frowns at his hand, seeing why he is doing this, maybe. “Sherlock…?”

Sherlock can feel himself breathe raggedly, vibrating oddly against John’s touch. The ground is cold and hard under his shoulder blades and back. John leans in and Sherlock braces himself, but John does nothing but kiss him. John’s lips press on his, and John’s thumb swipes over his throat in comforting little movements while he licks into his mouth. 

Sherlock holds on to John’s hand on his throat, feels his knuckles between his fingers. _Don’t ever stop._

John pushes his legs apart with his knee, and Sherlock lets them fall open for him, _anything, John._

John unzips his trousers and feels inside, and Sherlock looks up at the ceiling of Baker Street and feels heat creep over his cheeks. John’s hand on his throat leaves, goes to his stomach, John’s taking his pants down, guiding the elastic over his erection. Sherlock glances down, and sees John lick the palm of his hand. 

John wraps his hand around him and Sherlock arches his back without meaning to. He feels every single one of John’s warm fingers settle over his skin. And then, a little slick, move up and down. 

Sherlock belatedly grabs in the direction of John’s crotch, but the angle is odd. 

John sees, moves to his side so he can reach, and half-sits on top of him. John’s hip is bumping into the coffee table and Sherlock’s head is near a chair and his one foot is pushing against the sofa leg. 

John’s biting his lip, as if it hurts, what they’re doing. 

Maybe it does, Sherlock moves up awkwardly until he can kiss him again. And then it’s John’s tongue thrusting into his mouth as his hand is pulling at him. Sherlock’s holding John’s hard cock, squeezes it a little and feels John’s lips respond. 

It seems deeply unreal, where he is, what he’s doing. It seems impossible, John’s hand - John’s mouth – _John_. 

Sherlock watches John’s hand on him, and after a while he can feel himself contract, near orgasm and then come as if John is in charge of his body and he has nothing to do with it. John says “Hm,” into his mouth and kisses him more, his hand pulling him through it. 

Sherlock sits back on the floor, dizzy. 

His grip on John has slackened, and John pushes it aside and starts pulling himself off, fast. Saying, “Jesus fuck”. Sherlock watches him, reaches out again to help, but John comes quickly, in his own hand. 

It smells like sex. 

The silence is huge between them. 

Sherlock tries to search for whatever he has within himself still, and smile. _Are you happy, John?_

John doesn’t smile back, pulls his trousers and gets up. He’s clumsy, maybe the blood rushes to his head because he reaches for the chair, and nearly misses, closes his eyes, and breathes. Then opens them and shakes his head as if he was being silly. 

So Sherlock gets up, too. There’s probably dust in his hair. He runs his hands through it, then smoothes his shirt down. His trousers are around his ankles, and he pulls them up. 

John goes to the bathroom, so Sherlock lets him walk first, it’s small in there. But John doesn’t close the door, so he can see how after washing his hands, John briefly washes his cock with a practiced every-day sort of movement that has Sherlock’s eyes stick to it. 

He walks in, and John hands a towel to him. So Sherlock does it too, glancing at him, _is this what people do?_ He ends up dripping water onto his legs. He dries off, and pulls his trousers back up. He walks to the living room on slightly shaking legs, and sits down in his chair with damp pants. 

John closes the door to the bathroom and uses it, and then comes into the living room as well. He takes several pills from a blister in the kitchen closet, and takes them with water. But he doesn’t lie down, or go to his room. Maybe because it’s New Year’s Eve or something sentimental like that, but John doesn’t go, he sits in his chair and takes a book. Sherlock almost wants him to, so he can _think_. 

Sherlock feels open in some uncomfortable way. As if John reached inside his chest and scooped out things he never had any intention of letting go of. 

New Years. Sherlock remembers in a rush that this is something that they’ve celebrated before; so he gets up and looks for his violin, _where is it, where_ , then finds it, stashed underneath a pile of books, and takes it out of its case. He hasn’t played since he’s been back, and it feels ungainly. The wood should be familiar, the grip should be second nature, but it’s not. It needs maintenance, but he’s not patient enough to do it now. 

Sherlock wants to play a New Year’s melody that John will like, he remembers John enjoying that, but it doesn’t come out the way he wants it to. He messes up a note, and then screeches the violin. 

John winces, and Sherlock puts his violin aside, _why would you do that, John has a headache_. 

John says, loud in the tense silence, “You know, it’s New Year’s Eve, we could open that champ…”

Sherlock interrupts him, _alcohol is of no importance_ , says, quickly, “What do I do?” 

John frowns, “What?”

“Now, what do I do?” He needs to know, first. And then it’ll be normal again.

John smiles, but it doesn’t really reach his eyes. “Nothing? It’s…” he shakes his head. “I wanted that, for a long time. But if it’s not what you want, then that’s fine.” John moves his hand over his face, and sighs, deeply. “It’s… fine.” 

“It is what I want.” Sherlock says it fast, and John looks startled by that, somehow. So Sherlock, _be clear_ , says, “I want to have sex again.” _Every day._

“…right.” John smiles a little again. “Not right now. And not the floor maybe, but okay.” 

John’s tired, Sherlock can tell. It doesn’t need to be right now, but he almost wants to, he feels it prickling underneath his skin. “Sleep in my bed.”

John frowns, looks at him as if he’s someone else, for a moment. “What? You’re asking me to... _seriously_?” 

Sherlock feels a dull drag all over his body. _Don’t go._

John looks him over, and then says, “Okay. Okay, yeah.” He smiles, sadly. “Might as well.” 

 

-

 

There are fireworks outside at midnight, all over the city, and Sherlock lies awake to hear them. 

John’s asleep on the other side of his bed, a large gap of cold sheets between them. 

John came in, took his socks off, jumper, trousers, and got under the covers. Then rolled to his side and fell asleep and now he’s here, next to him, and it seems like the type of thing that’s entirely plausible until it actually happens. Sherlock has to keep on glancing at John to make certain, somehow hearing him breathe alone isn’t enough.

There are more fireworks, distant rumbles and then flashes lighting up the edges of the curtain. 

John doesn’t spread out much in his sleep, and he sleeps deeply because of the medication he’s taking. He stays in a contained ball. 

Sherlock, when he’s sure that John’s not going to wake up, edges closer and closer, and hooks his chin over John’s clothed shoulder. Sherlock tangles their legs carefully. He puts his hand on John’s hip, and then when he relaxes, it wants to fall off, so he shifts it to John’s stomach, to the slice of bare skin between his pants and t-shirt. 

Then that seems too much so Sherlock moves his hand away again, to his own side. 

He doesn’t know what to do with John in his bed.

There are large bangs outside - another year has started. A year ago he was in Tibet, and dead. 

John sleeps on. 

Everything, John’s smell, John’s heat, is strange. It makes it hard to sort through what happened, to remember every detail for later. It’s all fragmented moments and impressions in his mind, but he needs to, for when John leaves him, and he inevitably will. 

There are some firecrackers in the street, drunks shouting, car horns honking. John snores for a whole thirteen minutes, then stops breathing for long seconds, huffs, and sleeps on. 

Sherlock wants it to be morning, and John to be awake again, to be animated, hard lines and anger, maybe, not this soft shape of warmth and bones and nearness. But he might never have this again, either, John might pull away and go to Mycroft anyway, and then this’ll be the only time that he had him. 

Sherlock pushes against him until John half-rolls on top of him in his sleep. His weight compresses Sherlock’s arm and side and makes his fingertips tingle, then ache. His skin feels overly warm, sweaty, crawling with the feeling of being pressed against another human being. 

It’s dark outside, a steady faint glow from the window. Sherlock only moves again when he knows it will hurt, and thinks of what John said. He owes him. 

He owes him happiness. 

 

-

 

Sherlock does eventually fall asleep himself somewhere around morning, because the next thing he hears is someone moving around the kitchen. 

John’s gone, he left the bed, and Sherlock wasn’t awake to see it. He feels some relief, at that. 

Sherlock goes to the bathroom, and then walks into the kitchen. It smells like cooking. John’s stiffly bending in front of the fridge, holding on to the counter as he does it, and putting the butter back. The champagne is still in the fridge, Sherlock sees. They never drank it. 

John turns around, and he seems normal or at least as if he is trying very hard to be, “Morning.” 

Sherlock nods. 

John’s plated something for him already, so Sherlock sits down at the table. John sits next to him, and starts eating. It’s an omelette with mushrooms. 

“So.” John looks straight ahead. “Um.” 

Sherlock diligently slices a piece from the omelette and sticks it in his mouth. He doesn’t like mushrooms. 

“You okay?” 

Sherlock chews and swallows, doesn’t taste it. “Yes.” He is fine. More than fine, of course, having John so close all night was a dream of sorts, a nightmare of once, and probably never again. 

“Good.” John says. “That’s… yeah, good.” 

They eat on in silence. John gets up as soon as he’s done and does the dishes. 

Sherlock leaves, too. He doesn’t tell John where he is going, he doesn’t need to know yet. 

 

-

 

It’s oddly quiet outside. 

Most of London must have been celebrating too late to be awake already. Sherlock walks past small groups of drunks, still going. He could deduce exactly where they came from, but why would he. The puzzle has faded away, the challenge went, the interest died along with him. Nothing has been the same since he’s been back and what’s left is nothing relevant, nothing interesting. 

If John leaves he’ll have nothing at all. 

On New Year’s Day Mycroft won’t be at the office, not unless there’s some major crisis, so Sherlock lets himself into Mycroft’s house.

He was right; Mycroft’s sitting in his dining room, surrounded by a lavish spread of food. He looks up as he walks in, a buttered scone halfway to his mouth and a slightly guilty expression on his face. 

He puts the scone back down. “Sherlock.”

Mycroft’s always had a thing for stress-eating and over-indulging - he was on the pudgy side for years. He’s not now, despite the pounds he put on he looks relatively slim, but only by sheer determination and vanity, Sherlock knows. There are half a dozen remarks that Sherlock could make about the food and catching him eating like this that will stick underneath Mycroft’s skin. 

It’s a wonder he can get himself to eat in front of John at all. 

Mycroft motions to the food. “Help yourself if you wish?” 

It’s a spread of cheeses, grapes and lychees. “The goat’s cheese is especially appealing.” From an organic farm in Devon, Sherlock recognises the texture because he needed to know that for a case once. Odd, he thought he’d deleted that. 

“John made breakfast.” 

He says it as a challenge; _I wasn’t eating alone in an empty house, Mycroft, John cooked for me. John slept in my bed. John had sex with me, too._

Mycroft nods starchily, “Of course.” 

He carefully puts his knife diagonally over his plate, his teaspoon next to it. Then he takes the linen napkin from his lap, dots his mouth, and stands, brushing the crumbs from his suit. “A drink, then? It _is_ New Year’s.” 

Sherlock doesn’t reply, _it’s eight thirty in the morning, Mycroft_. But he follows him to his library. Mycroft seems to think that this isn’t going to be a conversation that he can have while sitting at a table and Sherlock finds that bothering him, too. He’s so full of little rules and conventions, Mycroft, of old slights, it’s tiring. 

Mycroft pours them both a _cognac_ , and hands one to him. Then sits down in his leather chair, and crosses his legs just so, sips his own.

Sherlock sits down on a matching chair, leans back sullenly and looks at the ceiling. Not making eye contact will annoy him somewhat, and it doesn’t require much of an effort.

He’s right, Mycroft shifts uncomfortably. 

Then, “Sherlock,” he sighs, “my interaction with John has been highly...”

“Yes,” Sherlock interrupts him, still staring at the ceiling; _don’t need to hear it_ , “It has.” Blaming Mycroft feels good, for a moment, _what is even the use of you, when all you do is take John from me_. It’s a superficial thought; Sherlock never doubted that Mycroft would let John be with him if he told him to stay away. Because he’d think it best. 

He always was like that, Mycroft, thinking of the easiest solution. _Lazy._

Sherlock lowers his gaze, and eyes Mycroft. “Have dinner with John. Tomorrow.” 

Mycroft looks taken aback. 

Somewhere John likes. Mycroft will know where that is, he is rather capable at deducing things like that, more so than Sherlock himself. Desires are such a haze of conflicting information, deducing takes distance, and Sherlock lost that with John a long time ago. That’s the trouble right now, too. 

Mycroft moves in his seat, and then seems to gather his thoughts enough to say, “Sherlock, as much as I appreciate the,” he frowns, “permission?” he seems to check that this is really what he meant. 

Sherlock nods. 

“And I do, truly,” Mycroft looks serious, “…but for me to have dinner with John, that would be rather _uncomfortable_ at this time, don’t you think?” 

Sherlock says, hating having to voice it, “He wants you.” _He said so himself, it’s not like you don’t know it._

Sherlock catches a strange, complicated look on Mycroft’s face, slowly replaced by, what, anger? “Another reason for me not to, Sherlock, there is a limit to what I...” he sighs, “It would be difficult.” 

Sherlock’s a little surprised Mycroft hasn’t deduced it, what he’s saying. “Take him to dinner tomorrow.” Sherlock eyes him. “And bring him back Saturday.” 

Mycroft raises his eyebrows, and yes, there it is, shock, not completely feigned. “You are proposing to…” he searches for the word, and then forms it with some difficulty, “ _share._ ” 

“Yes.” 

“Why?!” Mycroft seems almost personally insulted. “Now that...” Mycroft glances at him with something pained. Ah, he can tell that they had sex. Sherlock wonders what gives it away. 

“He needs you.” He says it dully, hates it, but it’s true. 

Mycroft bristles. “I severely doubt that.” 

But Mycroft’s eyes are shockingly sad, thinking about John. _So do you_ , Sherlock thinks. “You love him.” It’s not any easier to say the second time around. 

Mycroft eyes him for a long moment. 

Has a sip of his drink. 

Doesn’t deny it. He takes a breath, “Do you honestly believe that you can do that, Sherlock? _Share_ John?” 

It doesn’t matter whether he can. He needs to. He owes John. “Yes.” 

Mycroft shakes his head, “No, it’s not wise. It would be…” Mycroft sighs, “painful. Difficult.” He frowns. “For all involved, I imagine.” 

It’s an idle protest. He will do it, of course he will, for John. They both will. 

Sherlock gets up. Done talking about this now, _you wanted it, here it is_. 

He can see Mycroft shift on his chair, he’s considering it despite himself. Sherlock walks to the door, and on the way out tilts his head, says evenly. “Brother dear.” 

_Happy New Year._

 

-

 

Sherlock feels clearer, walking back home. 

There are more people in the streets now, some on bikes, multiple cars. London is waking up. 

He walks past a house that was a crime scene a couple of months back, Lestrade showed him the file. Mysterious killer, three people ripped to pieces. It’s been too long to have any usable evidence lying around still, but he might break in later. Just to see which one of his six, possibly seven, theories is right. 

When Sherlock comes home this time, John is in the kitchen, but he walks out as soon as he hears him come in. He’s holding his phone to his ear. 

“Yeah, he’s here.” John glances at Sherlock, “Okay,” and finishes the call. 

“Right.” John walks past him, and lowers himself down on the sofa. Rubs his face, and then looks up at him, “You know, I don’t think I’ll ever figure you out.” 

“You can’t,” Sherlock says, automatically. “I’m too clever.” He doesn’t believe that himself, really, but it might make John smile. 

It does, John laughs, even, looks at him with a trace of intrigue in his eyes, and Sherlock drinks that look in. He’s missed it so much. _John._

Sherlock says, a little hoarse. “It is the only logical solution, John.” 

And John shakes his head in disbelief, “That’s not...” his voice trails off, “...what people usually say.” He laughs, “So okay. Fine, yeah, it is.” John looks at him, something so _fond_ there, and says, “Now come over here so I can kiss you?” 

_Oh._

Sherlock does.

 

 

 

 

 


	7. (John)

 

 

John stands in the kitchen. He’s waiting for the kettle to boil. He zips up his fly, and tucks his shirt into his trousers. He hasn’t found his socks yet.

Sherlock is putting on his clothes in the living room. 

They just had sex again. Third time today, or no, was that the day before - five times in total now, maybe six. It’s all starting to run together. 

The kettle clicks, and John puts out two mugs and fills them. He stares at the counter and waits for the tea to brew, feeling the familiar wave of _what did you get yourself into, Watson_. 

It’s pure selfishness. No doubt about it, he doesn’t _deserve_ this, John thinks. 

But he can, now. Have Sherlock sit on his knees in front of him and _feed him his cock_. Undress Sherlock, and suck him, too. Bite a half-moon into his shoulder while he pulls him off - that’s straight from his finest fantasies. Except in his mind Sherlock never had that look in his eyes. In his mind John’s legs didn’t tremble from exhaustion, and he didn’t have a constant pounding headache, and Sherlock wasn’t shivering when he said his name and it wasn’t… real. 

Maybe it was never meant to be so real. 

John brings the mugs out to the living room, and puts one to the side for Sherlock. After a thought, he turns off the overhead light, and only leaves on the lamps on the side. It makes the windows seem clearer, suddenly. The orange-pale glow of the streetlights is illuminating white - it’s snowing, first time this winter. 

Sherlock is still buttoning his shirt. 

John sinks down on the sofa, and leans back against the cushions. It feels more like an admission than he’d like, but he’s exhausted. His every muscle is sore from banging around on the ground two days ago, and a whole lot of movements he’s not used to since. He’s not completely recovered from the hospital either, and he won’t be any time soon. Or ever, if he’s being realistic. 

Every day is just an empty count-down to some unknown moment where it’ll all be done. His brain, now, slow-growing tumour, but it’s there. Stage four. 

He still hasn’t found his socks. 

John’s not sure whether he should stay here, in Baker Street. It’ll be awkward when he gets sicker, impossible, really. The two floors are hard to get up to, and he might not make it to his room. So, what, should he stay on the sofa, hold the bucket on his lap and lie there, vomit while Sherlock has clients in? 

John glances at Sherlock. He might help him up, once or twice. But he’s not exactly _the caring type_ , is he?

Lestrade might help. Molly, Mike, Mrs. Hudson. John’s not about to flatter himself and think that Mycroft would want him around like that, either. 

But he does want him. He does, John thinks, after hearing his voice on the phone, his careful announcement of “Sherlock has just visited me and offered a _compromise_.” Mycroft never would have called if he didn’t actually want to do it. 

John massages his brow. _Jesus, how fucking complicated does his life need to be._ He never wanted to just fade out and die, so at least… having two people to fuck at his age, well, it’s not nothing, _working on that bucket list_. At least if he croaks soon he’ll have done something more worthwhile with his last weeks alive than just reading a fucking book. 

But it’s not easy. 

It’s weird, with Sherlock. The fact that John _can_ now, touch him, fuck him, doesn’t exactly make him able to do it constantly. He likes the idea, sure, but it doesn’t mean that he can get it up that often, and there’s so much time in-between, so much nothing. 

Sherlock’s sipping his tea, the mug looking overly mundane between his hands. It’s pink and it has a large crack running down the side, one of Mrs. Hudson’s cast-offs. Sherlock’s face looks stark in this light. 

John takes a sip of his own tea. His eyes drift to the window, to the snow hitting it, more than a week too late for Christmas. No wonder it feels so cold, he should turn up the heating. 

He doesn’t move. 

Minutes later, Sherlock finishes his tea, puts it down with a vague thud onto the side table, and gets up. John watches him walk over to the window and stand there, outlined by the barely-there warm light of their lamps. He’s looking at the snow. 

Or maybe a potential murder scene, god knows how his brain works. 

_Are you happy with this, then?_ John can’t tell. 

Sherlock comes over towards him, and sits down primly on the sofa. John pulls him against him; Sherlock’s tense at first but settles into it, he slowly becomes a warm weight against his side. 

They’ve never _cuddled_. 

John’s surprised to realise that he’s rubbing Sherlock’s foot with his toes and makes himself stop. Then, at Sherlock’s soft sound of indignation, chuckles and does it again.

Sherlock didn’t close the curtains, so they can watch the snow drift past, blown sideways by the wind. It seems wet, as if it might be melted by tomorrow. John wants to feel it. Stick his head outside and open his mouth and taste it. 

They hang around the sofa for a while more, but John’s tired. He’s not sure if he should invite Sherlock up, if he’s expecting him to. “You okay if I sleep in my own bed tonight?” 

He can feel the rumble of Sherlock’s reply, “Yes.” 

“Okay.” John gets up, and goes up the stairs. 

He doesn’t turn the light on, just goes to the bed, and pulls back the covers. He takes off his trousers, and crawls into the cold sheets. 

 

-

 

And then it’s Friday. 

Mycroft’s picking him up at seven, so knowing that he’ll have to walk and be somewhat alive by then, John spends most of the day in bed, and then on the sofa, silently hating it. 

Sherlock doesn’t try to touch him all day. John’s not sure what he expected, but he doesn’t seem jealous, or sad, or anything at all, so it’s probably out of consideration. _So that you can get it up tonight, John._ For all he knows Sherlock made rules about it with Mycroft - it wouldn’t surprise him. 

He showers well ahead of time and shaves closely. Gets his best, and all right, _only_ , suit out of the wardrobe. 

John lingers in his room for a while, all dressed up. It’s cold though, and he figures it’s useless, Sherlock knows and there’s nothing to hide from him, so he goes downstairs. Sherlock looks at him as he walks in, but doesn’t say anything. 

John sits down.

He taps his fingers on his leg, and Sherlock’s still looking at him, so he smiles. John feels weird about the suit, and Sherlock seeing him in it. It’s nothing special; it’s just the best he has. Still, his hand traces the fabric awkwardly. 

John remembers Mycroft saying that he buys Sherlock’s clothes, which he thought was funny. For his birthday, shit, that’s coming up soon, don’t forget.

The doorbell rings. John gets up, grabs his jacket and cane, and looks at Sherlock. “Well. Um.” 

Sherlock nods, so John walks out and makes his cane-stepping way down. Mrs. Hudson is poking her head out, checking whether she has to open the door. 

“It’s for me,” John says, “Mycroft.”

“Really!” She has a dangerous gleam in her eyes. “Your _other_ fellow.” 

John winces, _how does she always..._ “Mrs. Hudson, _please_.” 

“Oh, no.” She smiles, “Take it from me, dear, you need to get it while you can!” 

John grimaces in her general direction. He waits until she’s gone, and then opens the door to a cold blast of air and Mycroft, looking austere in a world coloured by snow. 

“John.” 

And suddenly, there’s anticipation bubbling up in his chest. “Evening.” 

Mycroft looks at him, and there is a small flutter of nerves on his face as well. “You are well?”

“I am, yeah.” _For a while more._

Mycroft glances in the direction of the stairs. He briefly hesitates. “Sherlock?” 

“Think so.” But thinking of Sherlock makes John feel weird again, too. “Look, if you don’t want to…” he doesn’t end that statement. 

Mycroft looks at him, with fondness in his eyes, so familiar. “I want to, John. But it is up to you, naturally.” 

John holds Mycroft’s gaze. _Jesus Christ what is he doing._ “I, yeah.” John licks his lips. “Yes.” 

Mycroft puts his hand on his back, and escorts him into the car. 

 

-

 

London’s speeding past, and the snow is making it look rather different. Quieter. The driver’s heading towards the river. 

“Where are we going then?” John’s curious. 

Mycroft smiles lightly. “Perhaps I might surprise you?”

As he thought. “Yeah, sure.” John doesn’t ask any more, but he does pay attention to where they are, going towards Westminster, so something fancy, probably. Mycroft doesn’t dick around with _surprises_ , John’s found. 

But when they do arrive, it’s not by a restaurant at all. They drive to the Houses of Parliament, slow down, and turn through a gate that’s slowly opened for them. 

When the car stops Mycroft just smiles enigmatically, and opens the door, so John takes his cane, and lifts himself out. It’s cold out, there’s a bone-chilling wind to go along with the snow. Mycroft starts walking, and John follows him, more concerned with the icy patches on the ground and navigating the snow crunching under his feet than where they’re going, but it’s only a couple steps. They’re really walking into _Parliament_. Mycroft isn’t saying anything. 

They walk past some security personnel who pay no attention to them whatsoever. _Should have smuggled in a gun for kicks._ John grins. Maybe he can steal an ashtray somewhere and dump it in Sherlock’s lap later. 

And then through a door with even more security, a woman that lets them in quickly with a small nod towards Mycroft, into a small lobby, and up a fancy lift. 

To the fourth floor, and it opens into a large hall. It’s grand, old splendour everywhere, and completely empty. 

John’s never been inside of Parliament, and he’s pretty sure that this part is special-access only - it definitely feels like it in the dark. It’s all large corridors and impressively hollow-sounding rooms, and John’s cane’s clacking loudly as they walk. He glances at Mycroft, but he’s not giving anything away except a slight pull to his mouth. 

It’s all rather adventurous, really. 

There are some lights in the distance. 

Mycroft leads him through a long corridor, and then stops at the very end. He takes out a key, and opens an unmarked door, into a small office. Beautifully lit by candles, bookcases as high as the walls, and the desk turned into a table for two, already set for dinner. 

John walks inside. There are large windows leading onto a balcony. He takes in the fancy-looking make-shift table, the shiny silverware. “If you’re about to bring out a string quartet I’m running, just so you know.” 

Mycroft laughs - with some relief, John thinks, “I shall cancel the brass band then, shall I?” 

John looks around him. “Is it one of your offices?” he knows that Mycroft has at least three. Four, if you count the one in the Diogenes Club. 

Mycroft tilts his head. “Yes. Although I rarely use it, these days most of my dealings are outside of Parliament. But at times it does serve me well.” 

John leans his cane in a corner, and takes his jacket off. He wonders who had to light the candles. Some assistant? He can’t imagine Mycroft doing it himself. 

Mycroft smiles a little, “And since London has graced us with snowfall tonight, I thought that the view might be to your liking.” 

“Yeah, it’s…” John glances outside, snow-covered buildings of Parliament, “Impressive.” He wants to say something like, _you really shouldn’t bother_ and _I’m fine with a pub, you know_. But then he sees Mycroft’s face and doesn’t. This is what he does, isn’t it, impressive gestures. 

There’s a little cart with food standing just next to the desk, and Mycroft starts opening some of the trays. A warm smell fills the room. No aperitif or little bites first, just the meal. John sits down on one of the chairs. 

“A beef _ragout_ with cognac and horseradish mustard. To be served with a red, naturally.” Mycroft looks around, locates the bottle, and pours him a glass, as well. 

It’s probably still from some fancy restaurant or other, but it looks perfect for this kind of weather, simple. Warm. Exactly what he wanted, really. John has a sip of the wine, and watches Mycroft plate him a generous portion. 

It’s just as good as it smelled. The mustard prickles his lips, the meat’s tender and falls apart in his mouth, it’s perfect winter food. John uses the bread to soak up some of the sauce as well, and he can see Mycroft look at him with a pleased expression. Probably glad to see him eating. He has been trying to put on some weight before it falls off again, but it’s been hard, the meds still make him sluggish and too tired to bother with food often. 

He’s going in on Monday again. 

Radiation. 

For dessert there’s a small, dark chocolate cake to be shared between them, and when Mycroft presses a knife against it, the layer of cake opens and a smooth, dark chocolate leisurely spreads over the plate. “ _Moelleux au Chocolat_ ,” he says, and John can smell it, a wave of dark chocolate as he plates them both a piece. 

Mycroft’s tongue peeks out for a second as he licks his lips. He’s inhaling slowly; he looks like he is _feeling_ the taste of it before indulging, and John remembers the last time that they had cake like this. _Quite well_ , in fact. 

John wants to push himself out of this seat, get on his knees and blow his mind along with some other things. 

He doesn’t. 

Mycroft’s eyes are glittering in the candlelight, but they eat on in silence. _Later._

 

-

 

Sometime while they were eating, it has started snowing again, and John’s gotten warm from the wine and the food, so after the cake is mostly gone, he says, “Do those windows open?”

Mycroft nods, gets up, and opens them for him.

It’s a blast of ice cold air, but it feels great against his flushed cheeks. John steps onto the small balcony, walks to the railing, and looks around. It’s snowing in earnest now, white specks falling in sheets over London. 

Mycroft moves behind him, and then comes to stand next to him. He hands him his jacket, and says, “I have always enjoyed the view from here.” 

It _is_ bitterly cold, but the view’s quite something. The beautifully lit buildings of Parliament, all stone and shadows. There’s Big Ben overhead somewhere. There are a few people walking below, some kids in the far distance building a meagre snowman. 

John feels surrounded, like this. It’s hypnotising, the way the snow falls down, dizzying, gorgeous. 

Might be the last snow he’ll ever see. 

He glances downwards. _Might as well jump now for all he's got left to look forward to._

Mycroft leans up next to him, and John can feel him hesitating. Maybe it’s the whole taking in the scenery; it’s probably not his thing. Or he’s craving a cigarette. So John pulls his eyes away from the view, he’s willing to leave, really. 

But Mycroft leans in, his nose cool against his skin, and kisses him gently on the cheek. 

Which is, no, John turns around and fists his hand in Mycroft’s coat, he kisses him, makes it hard and fast, _I’m not dead yet_.

And then moves away. 

He’s shivering. 

 

-

 

By the time that they make it back to the car John’s muscles are aching from standing up, walking, and the cold. He watches the snow fall against the car window, and wonders what Sherlock is up to right now. _Burning down the kitchen, probably._

They stop at an impressive street with rows of white, immaculate houses. Mycroft presses in a code that opens the door, and John follows him into a grand hallway. He catches a glimpse of an imposing dining room, with what, is that a full-sized _horse statue in armour_? 

But that’s not why they’re here, is it. 

Mycroft is looking at him, so John says, “Bedroom up there?” 

Mycroft nods, and leads him up a large staircase, with paintings on the walls that John’s pretty sure are of various royals, then through an oak door into a large bedroom. 

_Good._ John puts his cane to the wall, and steps close enough to kiss him again. _Now pull it together._

Mycroft kisses him back hesitantly, hands roaming to touch his hair, his cheek. 

John puts his own hands on Mycroft’s arse, and walks him backwards to the bed. Pushes him onto it, leans over him, and finds his mouth again. John nips his lips, sucks in tiny little sucks that make Mycroft’s breath catch. _Make it good._ He lightly bites Mycroft’s neck, which makes him groan, so he does it again. _You better enjoy it._ Then the line of his jaw, his earlobe, and he can feel the shudder that comes from that. _Might be your last chance._

It’s uncomfortable, half way onto the bed. So John scoots up a bit, pushes Mycroft back, avoids his mouth, and says, “I want to suck you.”

Mycroft lies back, and looks like he won’t stop him, but there’s still something unsure there. John doesn’t know what his own face is showing. He doesn’t want to know. He looks at Mycroft’s crotch. “Open it for me.” 

Mycroft does, his fingers fast on the buttons, to reveal black pants. John leans down, gets his lips on the fabric, and sucks through the cotton, very lightly. 

He can feel Mycroft shudder underneath him. His cock rises under the fabric. 

John looks at Mycroft, sees his desire, he _wants this_ , and thinks: _at least there’s that_. 

Mycroft undoes the buttons of his suspenders, pushes his trousers down, then his pants, cock rising up to meet him. John feels a tight pull in his own groin at the sight. He looks Mycroft in the eyes for as long as he can while leaning down, and yeah, his cock jumps up enough to bump his lips. 

John runs his closed lips over the side of it. Buries his nose in the patch of pubes, and smells him. Licks his way in a meandering path back up. Then opens his mouth, just a little, and licks the head, sucks him in completely, slow, and then lets him go again. 

John flattens his tongue, and takes him deeper. He can feel the careful tension in Mycroft’s thighs. He angles his head right, and takes him all the way to his throat. Mycroft lets out a little hitched breath at that. _Oh, I know what I’m doing._

John, slowly, lets him slide back out. 

He feels for Mycroft’s hand, and wants to put it on his head, meaning, ‘you can fuck my face, I can take it.’ But Mycroft tangles their fingers, and holds them on his stomach. So John swallows around him, tries to make it good and wet and dirty like that... but after a bit he’s trembling with the exertion of keeping himself up, leaning between Mycroft’s legs, and his head is pounding. 

Mycroft’s head is thrown back now. His hips are moving in constant little shudders, and he has his mouth opened, breathing shallowly, every once in a while closing it and swallowing, but then it falls open again on some groan. 

He’s holding back, he’s trying not to come yet, but John can’t keep this up, not like this. So he squeezes Mycroft’s hand that’s holding his, and moves to the side and lies down, exhausted. Fuck. _Fuck._ “Sorry.” 

Mycroft sits up and says, voice pleasantly shaky John can hear, but sounding guilty, “You are tired... my apologies.”

John presses his nails into the palm of his hand, _pathetic_. He tries to leer. “Hmm, maybe take off your clothes?”

Mycroft seems doubtful, but he does get off the bed. 

John looks at him go. 

Mycroft’s pulled his trousers up again, so he mostly looks dressed and put together, actually. Except that his erection is threatening to peek through, all slick spit-wet and red. Mycroft opens his jacket buttons, first. Takes it off, hangs it up, and then unbuttons his waistcoat. His suspenders are loose underneath, and fall off his shoulders. He loosens his tie, and pulls it off. 

John relaxes while watching him, and feels his own arousal come back slowly. He lightly squeezes himself through his trousers. It’s nice to watch, that’s sure. 

Mycroft glances at him. 

“Go on,” John says, and makes certain that he sees that he’s touching himself over it. 

Mycroft shakes his head in quiet surprise, but unbuttons his shirt, and hangs it up as well. Then a thin undershirt, and John’s never even seen his chest. It looks good, he thinks, surprisingly hairy. 

John sits up himself. He starts on his own tie, jacket, he’s not paying much attention to what his own hands are doing though, not when he can see Mycroft bending over to take off his shoes and socks, and then stepping out of his trousers and pants in one move, cock still half-mast. 

John sits on the side of the bed, toes his shoes off, and then gets up to step out of his trousers. Mycroft turns to him, helps him pull his trousers down, all warm skin and gloriously naked cock bumping against him, and John can feel a wave of arousal hit his stomach. 

Mycroft’s arms settle around him, and he kisses him softly, the slide of skin on skin luxurious. John pulls him back to the bed properly now, and has a moment to lie there, head on the pillows, and look up at him. Mycroft Holmes, naked, cock hard for him. John can feel the rush of it, god... _how did he get here?_

Mycroft swallows, and says, his voice tense with emotion, “I have long wanted to see you in my bed like this, John.” 

_Oh really?_ “Naked and hard?” John puts a hand on his own cock, and gives it a stroke. 

Mycroft’s eyes narrow, and he kneels on the bed, “Please, allow me.” 

John lies back, and gets his own view of Mycroft kneeling between his legs, his head going down, and his mouth taking him in. 

Mycroft keeps his mouth loose and gentle, but he’s got a wicked tongue. It doesn’t take too long before it starts tingling around his spine, the build-up of it. And John doesn’t know why, since Mycroft seems perfectly content to suck him off until he comes, but he stops him, “Hey,” 

Mycroft looks up, and John says, voice rough, “Come here?” 

Mycroft moves to lie next to him and John pulls him in and kisses him, lips slick and wet now, his mouth tasting like him. John chases the taste, his hips moving against Mycroft’s belly. 

Mycroft wraps his hand around his cock, John turns to his side and lifts a leg, puts it over Mycroft’s hip. Mycroft’s hand reaches between his buttocks and, _oh_ , teases him with little touches, barely there at all. 

John can hear himself breathe. Mycroft’s hand around his cock tightens as well, and John falls back, breathes, “That’s…” he smiles, “That’s, I’m going to…” 

Mycroft looks at him with such _joy_ , “Yes, John.” And he presses his finger to his arse, just brushes over it, pulls him off and watches. John’s eyes fall shut as the pleasure shoots through him, wave after wave, Mycroft’s hands sure on him. 

It takes a bit before he opens his eyes again, but when he does he sees Mycroft holding a hand over himself, just holding his erection, with John’s come still on his fingers. 

Mycroft sees his look, and slowly moves his hand up and down; John’s come spreading over his hard cock _deliciously_. 

John moves towards him. “What do you want?” He could suck him again, or pull him off, or just watch him until he comes like that, or… 

Mycroft seems to be considering all the possibilities as well, his hand steadily working himself. Then he reaches for the bedside drawer, takes out a small bottle of lube, and looks meaningfully at John’s hand. “Perhaps you can offer me some assistance?” 

John accepts it. “Yes.”

He opens the cap, and puts some on a finger. Mycroft spreads his legs for him, and John trails a wet finger between his buttocks. 

Mycroft lets go of his cock, lies back and just looks at him, so John teases him, nice and slow. He can feel his legs tremble. John, not sure if it’s dirty talk, a question, or just stupid hope, says, “I’ll fuck you next time.” 

Mycroft breathes raggedly as he presses his finger in, “Will you?”

John eyes him, “The time after that you fuck me.” 

_If he makes it to twice._

Mycroft licks his lips and smiles. “That seems…” he shifts, breathes, his hips moving so gloriously, “like a very agreeable compromise.” 

John feels a glow of heat. Good, good. 

Mycroft is watching him, his eyes intense. John adds a second finger, feels him take it, and curses that he’s too old and sick to get hard again any time soon. John pushes his fingers all the way up, and finds Mycroft’s prostate, runs circles over it as Mycroft leans into it. 

Mycroft shifts his legs until his feet are flat on the mattress, and he starts pushing himself up and down over John’s fingers in a slow rhythm. He’s not touching his cock, it just lies there, hard on his belly. John can see the play of his muscles as he moves. The curve of his stomach. The shifting of his hips, unapologetically fucking himself over his fingers, the sharp shape of his jaw, his head thrown back. The bopping of his Adam’s apple as he swallows. God, he could wank over this for _days_. 

John takes Mycroft’s cock in his hand, spreads the moisture at the tip, makes it slick, and Mycroft groans. 

“Good?” John asks, and it’s great to see him like this, straining for it, reaching for it, so close. 

“Very…” Mycroft breathes. “Very good. John.” 

John angles his hand a little differently, hits him straight on the prostate, and Mycroft’s legs start shaking wildly around his hand, his hips stuttering a little less evenly, “ _Oh_ ,” he says.

John pulls him off in faster, long strokes, and then as he’s really close, hits his prostate, again and again, and focuses his strokes on the tip of his cock. Mycroft’s face pulls in ecstasy, he gasps for breath, and he starts coming in long lines, spreading between John’s fingers, dripping over his belly. 

John slows his hand down, but he doesn’t stop completely until he’s all wrung out, and Mycroft sinks back into the sheets. Looking at him with a breathless expression that John thinks he’ll remember for the rest of his life, as if he’s just given him something astonishing. 

John feels warm, too, seeing it. He feels it pulse in his chest. Heat. 

He pulls his fingers out of him, carefully. Wipes his hands on the sheets, and lies down next to him. John leans over enough to touch a kiss to his lips, and Mycroft pulls his weight on top of him, makes it into a long, slow one. They lie pressed together, radiating heat. 

After a while John moves, and sees Mycroft’s slightly appalled expression at the feeling of their stomachs sticking together. Hah. John grins. 

Mycroft untangles himself, his long legs go over the edge of the bed, and he stands up. He finds a robe somewhere, and disappears into the hallway. 

John lies there, in a mess of sheets, cooling down, still. 

He feels like he is sinking into the mattress, his limbs heavy, and his eyes drift closed despite the overhead light from _a chandelier_ shining directly into them. When Mycroft comes back John’s not sure whether he already fell asleep, or if he was just about to. Mycroft hands him a wash cloth, wet and warm, and puts a glass of water on the bedside table. John cleans himself off, and has a drink. 

Mycroft, not really looking at him, fishes John’s trousers from the floor, and hands them to him. 

His pills, right. John opens the blister packs, makes sure that he has every variation, five, and swallows them all down with the water. 

“Do you wish for me to sleep here tonight?” 

What? John looks up, he didn’t really think about that, he just assumed, it’s Mycroft’s bed, isn’t it? 

“I have several guest rooms as well,” Mycroft says, carefully. “If you sleep easier alone, I could take one of them.” 

Oh, right. “I can sleep anywhere.” The combination of med school, the army and the fact that he is on heavy medication right now means literally anywhere. John looks at him. “You?”

Mycroft looks a little hesitant, “I’m not certain, I haven’t had the opportunity to find out for quite some time.” He raises his chin. “Many years, in fact.” 

_Been that long, has it?_ John lies back, not sure if that makes him special, or not. “Come here then. Sleep in dirty sheets, it’s sexy.” 

“Is that so?” Mycroft turns the overhead light off. Then gets back to the bed, pulls back the covers, and turns the bedside lamp off as well. John turns away, he’s not that big on cuddling and it’s a big bed, he’ll give him his space. 

“Good night, John.” Mycroft says, softly. 

“’Night.” 

 

-

 

John does fall asleep pretty much straight away, because when he wakes up Mycroft’s sneakily leaving the bed, and there’s some dim light coming from the windows. 

John stretches, and blinks. His voice is rough with sleep, “Hey.”

Mycroft turns around, and a faint smile plays around the corners of his mouth. “My apologies for waking you, I’m afraid I am not used to sleeping in.” 

“What time is it?” 

“Nearly eight.” Mycroft seems disturbed by the sheer idea. 

John considers pulling him back into bed and getting him off again, a bit of morning sex, but he has a headache already pressing on his temples. 

So he sits up as well, slowly. _Fuck, his head._ John fishes around for his trousers again, and gets his pills. Painkillers, too. 

Mycroft gets up and wears a thick dressing gown, slippers and nothing else, which is probably scandalous for him, John thinks as he watches him put it on. “Would you like some breakfast?” 

“No... sorry. Not yet.” Can’t eat this early in the morning, not before the pills work. 

Mycroft looks at him, and then sits down again on the bed. John’s not sure what he looks like, but it can’t be too good. 

As he wakes up more, the room seems less hazy at least. Mycroft, beside him, more clear. 

Mycroft’s hair’s curlier than John’s ever seen it; it does have a wave to it like Sherlock’s does, one curl at the front having made a dramatic escape to lie over his forehead. There’s some chest hair peeking over the fold of his dressing gown.

Mycroft’s eyes move over him, and soften. He says, gently, “It is a rather exquisite thought to know that you have spent the night here.” 

John’s not too sure about that. He’s feeling rather _decrepit_ , actually. “I think I’m gonna need a shower?” 

Mycroft nods, “Of course, there are two bathrooms.” 

“You want to join me?” John tries for a grin.

Mycroft blinks, “If you want me to?”

_Oh yes._ But... the bed’s low, and his legs don’t feel too strong yet. He could do with his cane but it’s on the other side of the room. So, _fuck_ , John sighs, “Not to ruin the mood or anything, but help me up?” 

Mycroft looks shocked that he hadn’t realised. He immediately gets up, finds him his cane, takes his arm, and John holds onto it to pull himself up with a grunt. Well, that wasn’t sexy. 

John doesn’t bother dressing at all, and follows Mycroft down a hallway, headache pulsing with every step and making him vaguely nauseous. It’s still mostly dark outside. 

The bathroom is, as he expected, large and gleaming, with a walk-in shower that would probably fit a football team. Mycroft takes his robe off, turns on the shower, and steps into it. The water runs over him, flattening his hair, and accentuating the long lines of his body. 

John watches him, “Hmmm.” 

Mycroft looks back at the sound, more startled than pleased. “You are flattering me too much, John.” 

“You don’t like it?” John leaves his cane, holds on to the wall, and steps into the shower as well. The water’s nice and hot. 

Mycroft eyes him. “I... do.” 

Mycroft carefully touches John’s shoulders, and when he doesn’t pull away, his arms, his sides, his back. He hesitates by his chest, there’s the small, waterproof bandage keeping his central line protected. John can feel the massage-like drag of his thumbs, and it’s nice. The bump of his soft cock against his side, too, but... 

Mycroft touches his inner legs, and John turns away, “Not going to.” _Dammit._

“Of course,” Mycroft stops touching him. 

_But I can do you._ John quickly kisses Mycroft’s neck, and uses his teeth. He tastes like water. 

He goes lower, flicks a nipple in his mouth and licks that, hand cupping his cock. Mycroft leans back, breathes and lets him, but then stills his hand. “Middle age, John.” Mycroft gives him a glance. “It is a sad spectacle.” 

“Yeah...” John laughs, almost bitter. 

_Isn’t it._

 

-

 

The hallway’s cold after the thick steam of the bathroom, and with it comes reality. 

John feels tension settle iron-sharp on his shoulders. He’s going back home, back to Baker Street. 

He’s having radiation the day after tomorrow. 

He doesn’t look at Mycroft as he gathers his clothes from the floor. He’ll have to wear yesterday’s suit, he didn’t actually think to bring a change of clothes. 

Mycroft leaves him alone, probably to get an outfit for himself, and John, once he’s away, sits down heavily on the bed. To put his shoes on, but once he sits there he can feel a wave of bone-deep exhaustion, and just… _what is he doing?_

When Mycroft comes back, primly dressed in a new shirt and trousers, John’s still sitting there. 

He can see the stiffness in Mycroft’s posture as well. 

Mycroft doesn’t meet his eyes, and takes a breath. “If you wish to leave it with this one encounter, I will understand, John.” It sounds prepared. 

No, he doesn’t want to leave it at once; he wants to be better so he can do this _right_. But he can’t, can he? John puts his feet into his shoes. “Not sure what I’ll be like next week.” 

Mycroft says, hesitantly, “If you are too ill, I can visit you instead?” 

John’s never actually asked for it, not once. It’s always been Mycroft who came, but he wants to push it, now, because Sherlock doesn’t have an idea of what it’s going to be like, but Mycroft does. So John stands with some effort, and looks him in the eye, “Look, if you want to keep on...” he waves his hand, _doing this_ , “It won’t be fucking pretty.” 

_Watching me die._

Mycroft stares straight back. “I am aware of that, John.”

John nods. 

And walks away. 

 

-

 

Mycroft doesn’t follow to make sure he gets down the stairs, and John’s glad of it. He’s leaning on his cane with every step because he can’t balance himself well enough, his legs are unsteady, and the decent is annoyingly slow. 

The door’s easier than it looked to get out of, thank god. 

The snow’s mostly melted into dark slush on the road now, but it’s still cold. There’s a black car outside, waiting. The driver doesn’t even look at him or need to be told where he’s going, and John gets dropped off neatly in front of 221b without having to say a word.

He uses his key, takes a deep breath, _time to face the music_ , and pulls himself up the stairs. His hair’s still damp. 

Sherlock’s not on the sofa. John thought that he would be waiting, ready to deduce exactly what happened. That he’d look at him and announce the amount of sex they’d been having and in which positions. 

Or that he’d have a hissy fit. That he would have shot his name into the wall while he was gone. 

But there’s no one here. 

John closes the door behind him, gets out of his jacket, and shoes. He eyes the sofa, he really wants to lie down, but he walks to Sherlock’s room and knocks first, “You in there?” There’s no answer. 

John opens the door and he’s right, Sherlock is there, lying on his bed in a dressing gown, awake. He looks as if he’s been pulling at his hair. “You okay?” 

Nothing. 

Fine. John eyes the bed, and takes his jacket off, again. Shirt, trousers. He’s not sure whether he has a scratch anywhere, or a bite mark or something, but if he did he wouldn’t care right now. 

Sherlock glances at him from the corner of his eye, probably deducing what the hell he’s doing, but it’s clear enough, John thinks. Sherlock moves to the side so he can pull back the covers, and John crawls in between, aware that the scent of Mycroft’s shower gel is still clinging to him. 

He lies in Sherlock’s bed as if he belongs there, which is a lie, too. It’s all lies, isn’t it? Pretending that he can do this, that he can have dinner and sleep-overs, sharing a shower, god, _what was he thinking_. It’s not... It can’t be. 

“I’m fucked.” John says it at the ceiling. 

Sherlock swallows audibly. He probably has a wonderfully disturbed expression wondering exactly how literal he’s being, but John doesn’t care. “I’m…” _so tired, so done, so fucking weak._

_Pretty sure I’m in love with both of you._

“...Fucked.” 

Sherlock’s looking confused, but he’s not asking questions. 

And fine, might as well give it to him, why not, John says, out loud, _clearly_ , “I love you.” 

Sherlock freezes very notably. 

“Only saying it once, so enjoy it.” John turns to his side, pulls the covers over his head. Oh, and, “Mycroft, too.” 

John can _hear_ Sherlock’s shock, then a long pause, before he says, sounding stunned, “…you _love_ …” Sherlock swallows again, “…me.” 

_Of course I do, you idiot._

John’s already drifting to sleep when he can feel Sherlock, extremely cautiously, settle himself against him. Hear him whisper, “ _John_ ,” as if he’s shocked him to the depth of his core. 

Good, John thinks grimly. 

_Be shocked._

 

 

 

 

 


	8. (Mycroft)

 

 

Mycroft watches John walk out of his bedroom, and feels entirely superfluous for a moment. 

_You silly man._

Mycroft is only half-dressed. His skin is wetter than he would like because he didn’t take the time to dry off properly. He barely slept last night with John in his bed, too self-conscious to even turn or breathe too loudly, and his eyes are burning with fatigue. 

The sheets still smell of sex, and John. The entire room does. 

Mycroft finds his mobile first. He told Anthea to only disturb him if absolutely necessary and she has not, but still it is important that he checks in. Mycroft scans the messages: there are over a dozen from Anthea, none too pressing, and one from Sherlock. “ _Send him home. SH_ ” 

Mycroft is trembling lightly. The chill of the room, perhaps. 

“ _On his way now, he will be there shortly. MH_ ” 

Mycroft puts his phone aside and walks to his wardrobe. He needs to dress, and then work. He stands in front of his dressing table mirror, and scans his face for tells, and his clothes for creases. His neck has a small, red mark, left by John’s mouth. There is nothing else. 

The fabric of his tie feels smooth between his fingers. Mycroft attaches his tiepin, and buttons his waistcoat. 

John was sullen, at times. Changing between deep, hard affection, and turned-away glances. Mycroft does not know how much of that is John’s personality, and how much of it is the thought of nearing pain. He feels for him, but John does not want to be felt for. 

There is nothing he can do.

Mycroft closes his eyes, and breathes deeply.

 

-

 

He does not hear from John that day, but then he does not expect to. 

Mycroft sends a parcel over for Sherlock’s birthday: A book on famous murder trials, a first edition from 1765 that he saw up for auction a while back and had Anthea secure for him. A pair of leather gloves, thin and high-quality so that Sherlock can work with them on - he tends to lose or damage pairs faster than he can replace them. A new dressing gown in a shade of purple that Mycroft knows Sherlock favours and will likely wear. And a thick, moss green dressing gown wrapped alongside it, for John. 

Mycroft isn’t certain whether Sherlock will be annoyed that he bought something for John and gifted it to him instead, but it has been a cold winter, and John grows cold easily when he is ill. Mycroft had seen the fabric and thought of him. 

He arranged a dinner reservation for Sherlock and John as well, in the restaurant that he mentioned to John. Mycroft watches the clock, and knows when they are most likely there, dining together in the candlelight. 

Sherlock does not send a thank you, he never has. It is his birthday after all, and it is Mycroft’s own choice to gift him these things, he does not expect an acknowledgment or gratitude. But John sends, the next morning, “ _Wearing it right now, cosy, thank you. JW_ ” and Mycroft feels a bit lighter. 

It does not last long, because he knows that John is going in for radiation today. 

Mycroft is in a meeting with the Home Secretary when Sherlock calls. Mycroft gets up, leaves the room and answers it immediately, faintly fearful, now, the memory of the last time that Sherlock called still bright in his mind. But Sherlock just says, “He didn’t want me to come to the hospital.” 

Mycroft can see why. 

“How…” Sherlock swallows. “How bad is it, after?” 

And Mycroft closes his eyes. He hates to hear that tone in Sherlock’s voice, the uselessness, because he knows what it feels like only too well. “Vomiting, many times, he needs to have something close by at all times. He sleeps a lot, and is hazy in-between. You will need to support him when he walks.” These are the basics. “That was before. I understand that it will be more intense now.”

“Don’t be surprised if he is angry. This is very difficult for him, Sherlock. Painful, humiliating. You can try to distract him but remember that there is nothing you can truly do.” 

Sherlock is quiet, but the line is open, Mycroft can hear the rustle and static. 

He thinks, “Perhaps take a case, he might enjoy hearing you tell of it.”

“You’re coming on Friday?” 

Mycroft can feel that question sit heavy on his chest. “Sherlock, I can…” Mycroft doubts, not sure whether Sherlock is asking him for it, or not, “...come by whenever you or he want me to.” _Or need me to._

Sherlock’s quiet again. Then says, “I’ll text.”

“All right.” Mycroft feels a strange sense of gravity. _My dear brother._

Sherlock ends the call. 

 

-

 

Mycroft gets a text from John himself that day, too. “ _Sick, very. JW_ ” 

Then, the next day, “ _Still in hospital, radiation = not good. JW_ ” 

The day after, “ _Thinking of when I’m out of here. JW_ ” 

Mycroft calls Sherlock for permission, and does go by Baker Street on Friday. He chooses a sorbet again: fresh ginger and mint, which is supposed to be good against nausea, but John is not well off this time. He is in his bed, covered with a heavy duvet, and propped up by pillows stuffed behind his back. 

“John.” 

He has shortened his hair. It’s not gone yet, but buzzed in anticipation of it falling out. John’s face is lined, his lips are dry and chapped, and the orange bucket, along with an array of medication, is next to the bed. The room smells like antiseptic, with something sour underneath. Looking at John, Mycroft wonders if Sherlock carried him up the stairs. 

John swallows dryly. “Must be Friday.” 

Mycroft sits down gingerly on the side of John’s bed, afraid that the motion of it alone will be enough to make John uncomfortable. He lightly touches his hand. “It is. How are you?” 

John’s voice croaks, and he tries for a smile as he tangles their fingers. “Fucking terrible.” 

Mycroft holds John’s hand in his, and watches the play of their fingers. He has seen John suffer often, week after week, and it is never any easier. 

It will only get worse, Mycroft is aware. 

Mycroft takes some of the sorbet on a spoon, and hands it to John, so he can suck it off. John does it, for him, but then shakes his head, and Mycroft has to give him the bucket, sees the spasms rack his body. 

John says, “Sorry,” weakly, and then closes his eyes. 

Mycroft helps him lie down, and stays until he is asleep.

When he goes back downstairs, Sherlock is in the living room, his eyes full of badly concealed fear. Mycroft hands Sherlock the sorbet, and says, “For later, I believe it helps his throat, and some of the nausea.” 

Sherlock puts it away in the freezer dutifully, and then is silent. 

There is nothing to say. 

 

-

 

Two weeks later, John is feeling somewhat better and has been cooped up long enough that his messages read things such as, “ _If I have to watch one more hour of day-time TV I’ll kill me myself, cancer’s too slow. JW_ ” 

And “ _Yes on the considering shooting the walls, but Sherlock’s hidden my gun, fucker. JW_ ” 

And “ _Hate the view from this window, if you can literally move the earth, now would be the time. JW_ ” 

Mycroft is glad to see a sense of humour from John, so he rather encourages it, and sends little titbits of his own day to John as well. 

John calls daily, and they often talk until he falls asleep, Mycroft sitting in an empty office, or on his bed, listening to John’s voice growing slowly more tired, and his words trail off. 

It still makes him feel happier than it perhaps should. 

Mycroft knows that John wants him to take him out this Friday, but choosing where is difficult. John cannot walk much. He cannot eat a meal, or be around food. He is weak, and tends to refuse help. He sleeps often. 

In the end Mycroft settles on a - very short - afternoon walk. 

Mycroft goes to pick John up, he walks up to John’s room together with Sherlock with the intention to help him down the stairs, but John very clearly does not wish to be helped. He walks himself down, painfully slow, knuckles white as he grips the banister. 

The driver drops them off by St. James’s Park. 

Mycroft still has such fond memories of that stolen, quiet afternoon in Regent’s Park; he thought that it might be pleasant. And while the weather is overcast and windy, it is not raining. 

Mycroft offers John his arm, but John insists on walking on his own, says, “I can do it.” 

And then he weaves on his feet and Mycroft has to help him down onto a bench five minutes later, John pale and gasping for breath.

Mycroft does not look at John, instead lets his eyes trail over the rather uninspiring late winter vegetation. He observes the scattering of water fowl, and the tourists and families wandering noisily around the park. 

The trees wave in the wind. 

It takes a minute, and then John says, sounding so utterly low, “This isn’t worth it.” 

“Being outside? We can come back another time if you prefer.” Mycroft is very willing to go back to Baker Street - if John feels weak he should go back to bed. 

“No.” 

Mycroft glances at John, and understands what he is saying from the line of his mouth and his shoulders.

_I see._

Mycroft suddenly feels a small sense of fear, _no John, not yet_. 

But, knowing very well that any attempt to discredit that statement or belittle it would be unwelcome, says, “I believe that to be understandable, you are in pain.” 

John looks at him, and for the first time since Mycroft has seen him today, he shows some of his desolation, “Fuck pain.” John shakes his head, “I’ve had _pain_ , but this… I can’t eat, I can’t think... can’t even bloody _move_!” He weakly kicks at the gravel by his feet, and the small stones skitter over the path. 

Mycroft swallows his apprehension, the sadness, _oh, John, if there was anything I could do, anything at all_ , and says, “I imagine that Sherlock could score you some morphine, or any other illegal substance of your choosing - marijuana at the very least.” 

John looks at him, and then his eyes slowly crinkle, and his lips show a smile. “You saying I should _get high_? _You?!_ ” 

Mycroft nods, aware of the part that he is playing, here. He does not mean it, exactly, but “I hear it is very… uplifting.” He adds, “Although I imagine that Sherlock will be able to advise you much better on the particulars.”

John grins, but it fades quickly and Mycroft can feel the threat of it settling. John is not doing well. This is not working. 

Mycroft brings him back to Baker Street, and John does not object. 

 

-

 

Sherlock lets himself into Mycroft’s house that evening, late at night. 

Mycroft is still awake and in his library - trying to concentrate on some budget reports, but mainly he does not want to go lie in bed and be forced to _think_ \- when Sherlock stumbles in. Looking pale and horrible, making Mycroft inhale sharply with metal-tasting fear, “What happened?”

Sherlock looks at him and says, as if he has only just realised it, and perhaps he has, “He’s going to die.”

Oh.

Mycroft gets up, feeling old, right then. Weary. _Oh, Sherlock._

He pours Sherlock a drink, hands it to him, and says, “Yes.” 

It feels like an enormous betrayal that he should ever speak those words, but Mycroft does, he looks Sherlock in the eye, and says, “He will.”

 

-

 

The next round of radiation is on a Monday morning, and John takes a taxi to the hospital, walks into his doctor’s office, and stops his treatment. 

Mycroft hears it from Sherlock first, in a flurry of texts filled with anger and disbelief, “ _He can’t! SH_ ” and “ _He is shortening his live span by six, possibly even twelve months. SH_ ” and “ _We can make him. SH_ ” 

Mycroft, his own heart quietly breaking, answers, “ _We shall do no such thing. It is his choice, Sherlock. MH_ ” 

Perhaps he had expected it.

John sends him, “ _I’m going to need that paperwork soon. JW_ ” 

And Mycroft promised himself that he would respect that, that he would hold John’s wishes above all else, so he replies, “ _My lawyers prepared the forms, I will have them ready for you, John. MH_ ” 

 

-

 

The days drag. To know that John has decided something of such importance and not to immediately see him feels uncomfortable. It is Wednesday evening, right before midnight, Mycroft is already in bed, when his phone goes. He answers it quickly, “John?”

“Hi.” John sounds hesitant. “Are you home?”

“Yes,” Mycroft says, hope surging in his chest. “Do you wish for me to come over?”

“I know it’s too early, so if it’s not… but I’m here - actually? Outside.” 

“…of course.” Mycroft gets out of bed, shrugs into his dressing gown, and hurries down the stairs. 

He opens the door, and there is John. Standing on his doorstep, alive and so precious. Mycroft reaches out for John’s arm - he means to steady him - but John steps close, so Mycroft, cautiously, wraps his arms around him and _holds him_ , briefly. “John…” Mycroft has to swallow away something hot in his throat. 

John mumbles, “Sorry for...” He pulls back, and looks at him, “Sherlock told me the code, but I didn’t want to try breaking in.” He grins, somewhat awkwardly, “Thought I’d set off the alarm.”

Mycroft is not entirely certain what to say. _You are always welcome here._ “…it is no bother.” He steps back, “Come in?” 

John glances at the thin fabric of his dressing down - entirely inappropriate for the weather, naturally, Mycroft is naked underneath, his legs and feet already woefully cold – puts a hand on his side, and says, “Take me to bed?”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow, _oh John, never change_ , “If you wish.” 

John smiles, and walks in. 

It will be for sleeping, Mycroft imagines. But John can certainly sleep in his bed if he wants to. 

John is slow on the stairs. So Mycroft takes his time as well, walking right next to him, ready to catch him if he stumbles, but he does not. He seems better for the moment, but Mycroft assumes that it is mainly mentally. 

Mycroft only has to take his dressing gown off, so he can watch John sit down on the bed, and undress. He has a new bandage on his chest. John says, “They took the central line out.” 

He takes his trousers and pants off as well, and Mycroft lets his eyes trace the lines of John’s body. He has lost weight, it is starkly obvious. 

Mycroft says, assuming that John will want to know, “Your forms are downstairs, you can look at them in the morning if you wish.” 

John pulls back the covers, and gets into the bed next to him. “Thanks.” 

“Of course.” Mycroft turns the light off, lies on his side, and carefully settles next to John’s cool skin. 

John slides an arm around him, so Mycroft touches him as well, cautiously. He lets his fingers linger on the relief of John’s ribs, the nubs of his spine and the curves of his hipbones, faint worry pressing on him. 

John can tell, because he breathes out a laugh, “You thinking you’re gonna feed me up?” 

If it is possible. 

They can go to every restaurant in London that John feels like, anything he wants to eat, anywhere. “I am.” 

John smiles against his chest, his voice a low rumble, “Hmm, okay. No squid though. Or rabbit.” 

Mycroft holds John close, startled by the sheer pleasure of having him in his bed like this. “Naturally.” Perhaps it is because he was so preoccupied with the sexual aspect of it last time, or because now he genuinely did not expect it, but it feels like the rarest gift, to have John next to him. 

John is idly touching him as well, his hand tracing the line of his back, and Mycroft’s thoughts skip from the scent of John’s hair to the feeling of it, so short that it is prickling his lips. To the rustle of John’s breathing near his chest, to John’s hands, over him. To John himself, so unlikely, here. 

As always, Mycroft doubts whether John wishes to know what he means to him. Whether John will see any value in it, or only a demand that he cannot fulfil. 

John moves his hand, touches his face, and says, “You’re frowning.” 

“Thinking,” Mycroft says, indulgently, he hopes. 

“Hm, mentally doing paperwork?” John runs his fingers over Mycroft’s cheek, the line of his jaw, then in front of his lips, tracing them lightly before moving his hand away. 

And no, he has not thought of work from the moment that John arrived. 

John says, sounding more awake now, “Um, actually, I wanted to...” He takes a breath, “Right. What you... did. For me. The Fridays…” John laughs briefly, “the _food_ , I never said it, but, it got me through. This time, and last time, too, so: thank you.” 

Mycroft stills, a sinking feeling in his stomach. _Is this goodbye? Is that why John came?_

He says, cautiously, “You do not need to thank me, John.” 

“No- I do.” John’s voice tenses, “And you can delete it or whatever, but I… I told Sherlock as well, so it’s not… but, yeah, I,” John stills, “I love you. For that, and everything else, so you should…” His voice breaks. “…know that. Right, I’m done now.”

Mycroft blinks. He can feel a deep wave of stunned pain, not quite believing that John, _John Watson_ , would ever say that to him. 

John is still touching him, but his touch has lightened, ready to pull back in case it is not welcome. Mycroft looks at John more directly, even though he cannot see him in the dark, and says, “John...”

“Don’t.” John sounds uneasy. “Really.” 

“The only reason why I have not told you is because I believed that it would not be welcome.” Mycroft feels a strange pressure as he readies to say it now, the words rather unfamiliar on his tongue. “I love you. Deeply, John.” _Until your dying day I will do anything for you, anything within my power, and many things outside of it. I have let you inside my body and my mind; I will not be whole again without you._

John laughs a little, “Okay, okay,” obviously uncomfortable with that much emotion. Then, “Jesus, just kiss me already?” 

And Mycroft does. 

He does not know how he ever got this man to love him. Why anyone would.

John falls into a light doze soon after, and Mycroft drifts a little himself but he does not truly sleep until John moves onto his side, and he can move as well. 

 

-

 

Later, Mycroft is not certain whether it has been minutes or hours, only that it is still night, he can feel John move behind him. And then, unexpectedly, the line of his erection. Mycroft moves into it instinctively before turning his head. It is still too dark to see John’s face. “Yes?” 

John huffs a breath that sounds like a laugh, and whispers. “You have a great arse.” 

“Is that so?” Mycroft feels a small thrill of arousal, slowly winning over sleep. He puts his head on the pillow again. He cannot see John anyway, but shifts more towards him. 

John takes it as a sign to lean closer into him, too, he tangles their legs, and puts his erection against the sensitive skin of his backside. He traces his fingers over his stomach, then his hip, and whispers into his ear, “I promised I’d fuck you.” 

Mycroft is surprised - not that John remembers what he said, but that he would be inclined to right now. “You did.” 

He definitely can try, but Mycroft is doubtful whether John will be up to the amount of physical exertion that it requires. There are always other options; he might offer to do it to John? Or John can use his fingers again instead, or they might be able to do it for a short time. 

Mycroft takes John’s hand, and puts it on his own cock; it’s still soft but slowly growing in interest. John squeezes lightly, and breathes into his ear, “I’ve thought about it.” The desire is obvious in his voice.

“Have you?” It’s an idle question, but Mycroft likes hearing John speak like this. 

John’s taken his cock between his fingers, and is playing with it, his own erection as a brand on his arse. “Hm. In the hospital, in bed, lots of time for thinking. I’m making a bucket list.”

Mycroft turns his head, and John’s lips near-miss, then reach his, and draw him into an open-mouthed kiss. He feels a long, slow wave of growing pleasure. _Oh, John._ Mycroft turns towards him fully, and kisses him properly, tastes him in deep, growing kisses, rubs himself against his leg. 

John pushes the covers off. 

Mycroft moves over to the bedside table, opens the drawer, and finds, by feel, the round tube of lube, and the unused strip of condoms he bought when John last visited. He takes one, and moves back on the bed. He puts the condom where he can reach it, and, remembering John’s obvious pleasure at doing it the last time, gives him the lube. 

Mycroft manoeuvres himself over John, and sits over him with a leg on each side of John’s thighs. He finds it a bit of an awkward position but it is dark and John will be better off lying down.

“Hmm…” John appreciatively runs his hands over Mycroft’s upper legs, his stomach, his hips, and then settles on his arse and squeezes. Mycroft is hardly very vocal, but that makes him take a little breath that he is certain John heard. 

John’s hands leave to take the lube and then they’re back, one hand with wet fingers. Mycroft’s buttocks are already parted sitting like this, so John can press his finger there easily. 

Mycroft leans down, and John kisses him, one hand settling on his shoulder, pulling him in, while the other is breaching him. 

John uses two fingers next, two become three, and it stings somewhat, it has been a while since he has done this. But Mycroft is running his own erection over John’s, and the feeling of it and the taste of John’s skin in the dark is enough to arouse him. 

Mycroft reaches to the side, and feels for where he left the condom.

He opens it, and gives it to John thinking that John will put it on and that he will remain sitting over him like this, but John stills his thigh, “Like before?” 

Mycroft prefers that as well, actually, so he lifts his leg over John, and lies back to his side. John is putting the condom on, and then pulls his hip so Mycroft’s arse presses against his cock. 

Mycroft bends one leg, and John moves forward, holding his erection, but the angle is a bit off, and it doesn’t work. 

John breathes a laugh to his neck. It makes Mycroft smile as well. 

John moves down the bed a little, and tries again. He does breach him this time, and the feeling is an immediate hot pleasure-pain that takes the breath out of him. “Oh!”

John does not move any more than that. His hand comes around to touch Mycroft’s cock, which has gone half-soft but John’s hand on it is more than enough to get him interested again. 

“’M inside of you.” John says into his ear, sounding both pleased and aroused.

The words make Mycroft’s stomach contract, “Yes.” 

“You like it?” John asks, his voice pleasantly tender. He nips the shell of his ear with his teeth and runs his hand over his side, then pushes in a bit more, and the stretch is delicious, invasive and grand. 

Mycroft is not sure what John wants him to say. 

He feels overwhelmed by the feeling of it, not certain if his eyes are open or not, the dark is like a blanket covering them both. The feeling of John’s tense body behind him is _exquisite_ , so Mycroft says, “I want nothing more than to have you inside of me.”

John sucks in a breath, and pushes in a little more. “Like that?” 

Mycroft can feel John’s ribs pressing to his back, John’s hipbones to his arse. John moves up, so he is even closer, wrapped around him, and Mycroft lowers his leg, so John can put his leg over his. 

They feel like one. John does not move, but kisses his neck, licks there, sucks a little. And Mycroft does not remember a lovemaking like this, where he could lie there and feel the sweet pain and expectation of it, the so temporary elation. He realises that he is shivering. John is right, they are doing this because he wanted to, and they are so extremely lucky to have the chance to… 

It is all anticipation, and when John shifts, Mycroft can’t help but breathe a soft sigh. John thoughtfully moves in small, measured shocks, and Mycroft instinctively wants to rock himself against him and build a rhythm, but John stills his hip. It feels tentative, searching, but then John goes a little further, changes the angle somewhat, and Mycroft can feel a shivery contraction of lust, “Ah!” 

“Hmm,” John says into his ear. “That’s it.” 

John leans over him more, and lets him take his weight. He must be tired, Mycroft thinks, so he goes along with the rhythm, moves himself so that John does not need to, and it feels subtle, but every rock of his hips brings a wave of deep pleasure. 

John eventually pulls back, Mycroft can feel the damp heat of John against his back as he pulls out of him, and then pushes in again. Breaching him just a little, and then pulling back. He does it extremely slowly, and it feels tight every time again, it’s a great, deliberate pleasure to be stretched. 

And then John rolls off more and pulls him in so that he can push in all the way in again, and Mycroft lets out a surprised sob that he did not know he had in him at suddenly being filled like that. “Oh, John!” 

“Good?” John sounds as if he is out of breath, but he is smiling, and kisses his shoulder reassuringly. Moves again, right over his prostate, and Mycroft can feel a drop of come release from his cock, even though John is not touching it. 

John moves again, in harder, longer pushes now. Mycroft swallows. His heart is beating hard in his throat. “Yes.” 

He will not come this way, but he is feeling close to it, a haze of arousal, his whole body burning with heat and touch. Mycroft reaches back to John and pulls his hips towards him, but he cannot go any deeper, he is fully sheathed. He has him inside completely, and the thought is incredibly arousing. 

John holds him there. He runs his fingers over Mycroft’s stomach, and Mycroft sucks it in, the feeling alone enough to make him shudder. “I…” 

“Yes,” John must get it, because his fingers go down towards his cock very gently. Just a trace of fingertips, knowing he’s on the edge. 

Mycroft breathes out slowly. He is controlling himself, and at the same time aware of every shift of John inside of him, every breath of John’s, every point where they are touching. 

John eventually moves again, he pulls out completely, making him still in anticipation, and pushes in again slowly. Mycroft nearly screams, he manages to swallow the sound into a moan. “Ah!”

John licks his neck, and sucks a circle there, “Hmm.” He rocks back and forth gently, lets him breathe. 

The inside of Mycroft’s knees, his armpits, and every point where his skin is touching John is slick with sweat. Mycroft can feel the prickle of it on his back. His cock releases another drop of come, untouched, and it slides over his slit. 

John’s muscles shift, and he moves again. Mycroft anticipates it, and then gasps with pleasure when he is filled again. And then again, he can see black and white spots at the rush of it. 

John hits his prostate, leisurely wraps his hand around his cock and pulls, and Mycroft leans his head back. “John, this is…” He cannot stop it anymore. He’s at that edge of coming, gulping in air. John feels huge, Mycroft pushes back into him, greedily now, asking for it, please, _please_ , “John!” John gives it to him, moving in hard, breathtaking thrusts, and Mycroft comes, John wringing spasm after spasm of come out of him. 

John slows down right before it becomes unbearable, and then stays inside of him, fully. John’s hand that was on Mycroft’s cock rests on his thigh. 

Mycroft breathes, still shaking, stunned by the wave of feeling. 

He realises that he is holding onto the sheets, he has balls of them clenched in his hands, and he releases them. John is kissing his neck, but his thighs and stomach that are still pressed against Mycroft’s arse nearly vibrate in his desire. 

Mycroft half-turns, enough to meet John’s lips and kiss him properly, loving the stretch of him still inside. 

John presses his knee to Mycroft’s leg, pushes his hip, and Mycroft moves along with him to his knees, careful so John stays inside. 

John, with a groan, sits on his knees behind him, a lot of his weight leaning on Mycroft’s back. He nearly pulls out, his movements much more erratic now, and then pushes back in, and says, as if he barely realises that he is doing it, “My… Mycroft, god, fucking you, I...”John snaps his hips; he feels rough, fast, building towards a crescendo right away. 

Mycroft tenses along with him as John’s hands on his hips tighten. Yes, _yes_. 

John stutters, says, “My… oh!” 

And Mycroft can feel John twitch inside of him, he can hear John’s wrecked breaths, his sounds of pleasure, and he feels a deep wave of love for him, knowing that John is letting go, and coming inside of him. 

It does not last long, John stops moving right after. He puts a hand on his back in apology, pulls out, and sinks down onto the mattress, “Oh… god.” 

Mycroft turns towards John; he helps him with the condom, slippery on his fingers, puts it to the side, and lies down as well. John shifts close straight away, his face near his, and rests his forehead to his cheek. 

John breathes, “God.”

Mycroft tilts his face, and meets John’s lips, softly. He feels spent, but warm, and so glad for this moment - that they got to do this, at least once.

“Yes.” Mycroft does not know what else to say. His legs feel as if they will drift through the mattress. He will be sore tomorrow, both from the stretch and from holding John’s weight up, but he does not mind. 

Mycroft thought that John would turn over and sleep now, but he does not seem inclined to, and Mycroft does not wish to move away, either. 

John tangles their fingers, and he holds him, wordlessly, so glad. So very glad to have him here. The sweat on Mycroft’s body dries, and he becomes somewhat cold, but his skin that is pressed to John is still heated.

He does not regret a single second. 

 

-

 

Five weeks later, Mycroft is being driven towards Baker Street. 

It is the last day of March. 

It’s raining, the car’s wipers moving soundlessly in grand sweeping arcs to get rid of the drops hitting the windscreen. The food next to him smells rather enticing, and the scent is filling up the car. His stomach rumbles. 

It’s been three days since Mycroft last saw John and they shared his bed, so there is nothing tangible left. No furtive bruise, scent, or scratch. Only the memory of small, frivolous details. 

The scrape of John’s lips against the skin of his neck. 

The sparse, soft hairs on John’s forearm bending against his fingertips. 

The dip in John’s back, right above his buttocks, lightly biting there. 

Remembered touches ghosting over his skin, so many by now. 

Mycroft exits the car, and walks up under his umbrella, carrying two bags, one with the food and one with a bottle of champagne. By the door he shifts them so that he can use his key - courtesy of Mrs. Hudson. Lestrade has one as well, and so does Miss Hooper, and the nurse that comes by every morning. Mycroft steps into the hallway, shakes his umbrella out and leaves it there to dry. 

He walks up the stairs, and he can hear the rumble of John’s and Sherlock’s voices upstairs already. He is expected. 

Still, to be polite, Mycroft knocks. 

It is - unexpectedly - John who opens the door, standing with the aid of his cane and smiling. “Hey, you.” 

John pulls Mycroft in, hand on his lapels, and kisses him gently. Sherlock is right there somewhere behind John, but John feels great and it is lovely to see him like this, so Mycroft puts his hands on John’s waist, pulls his familiar body against his, and enjoys the kiss. 

John looks cheeky as he leans back. He even winks, so he must be feeling good today, then. Or just right now, he has taken some form of narcotic, Mycroft can tell. Mycroft feels himself smile back. “John.” 

Sherlock, probably deciding that they’ve had enough privacy for now, walks up as well. “Mycroft.” 

“Good evening.” Mycroft tilts his head at Sherlock, and then glances at John, _good day?_

Sherlock nods briefly. 

Mycroft puts the bags on to the kitchen table, opens them, and hands Sherlock the champagne. John should not be drinking alcohol really, but he asked for it, and they are celebrating, after all. “A _Dom Perignon_.” 

Sherlock turns it over in his hands, and his eyes widen slightly, “1961?” 

Yes. John won’t realise how expensive it is, but they will only get to celebrate this once, Mycroft is aware. He owned the bottle already, a gift from Buckingham Palace for services rendered, and he cannot think of a better time than today to open it. 

Sherlock puts it aside and starts taking out tableware, so Mycroft prepares to serve food from a restaurant with a Michelin star on scratched plates. To pour the champagne into not exactly matching wine glasses - one has a strange blue hue for some reason. 

Mycroft _has_ bought them completely new dinnerware sets twice now, but Sherlock keeps on using them for various experiments. It makes John laugh, when he is stuck on the sofa, unable to move. 

So Mycroft buys more. 

John sits down on a kitchen chair, and looks at the boxes on the table curiously. “Is that Italian?”

“Italian fusion, a seared scallop and white truffle risotto.” Mycroft is partial to a good risotto himself, and this one is particularly exclusive. 

John smiles, “White truffles, I’ve never tried those.”

“You have not? They are a famed aphrodisiac.” 

John raises his eyebrows, “Oh, really?” 

Sherlock seems briefly intrigued, glancing at the plate. Then says, without any malice – a fact that Mycroft continues to find startling - “It’s my night tonight.” 

Mycroft nods calmly, “Yes, I’m aware,” and eyes John, knowing that he will find this funny, “so if successful, feel free to thank me later.” 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, still a bit awkward around the topic, but John laughs, “Yeah, don’t give him high hopes now, sick man here.” 

Mycroft pops the champagne, a quick burst of pressure against his hand. He puts the cork to the side, and pours carefully. 

They don’t usually dine together like this, the three of them. Mycroft hands a glass to John, then one to Sherlock - Sherlock meets his gaze, and Mycroft knows that they are thinking the same thing. _John is happy that they’re doing this._ They chose right with planning it. 

He sits down, and consciously chooses the seat across from John, leaving the one next to him for Sherlock.

John looks quite dapper tonight, and it is wonderful to see him at the table, even though he will probably tire fast. Mycroft takes his own glass of champagne, and raises it. “To your birthday, John.” 

John smiles in reply, “To forty-one, and to _being alive still_ , yeah?” 

John mentions dying casually and often, now. Mycroft understands what it is for John; to name a thing means to control it, as difficult it can be to hear the reminder that all of this is so very temporary. That they will, inevitably, lose him.

Sherlock raises his glass, and clinks it to John’s with a sense of ceremony. “Happy birthday, John.” 

John puts his hand on Sherlock’s knee, and says, amusedly, as if it is a joke between them, “Short version... not dead yet!” 

Sherlock says, vaguely affronted now, “I did say I was sorry for that.”

“Yes, you did, but you’re going to hear it anyway.” John grins, and pulls him in for quick kiss. It is rather chaste, but undeniably with feeling, and it makes Sherlock smile rather dazedly for a moment as they part. 

Sherlock still looks as if he is not used to being kissed, Mycroft thinks privately. 

And then, that he himself might look the same. 

John holds out his glass to Mycroft as well, so Mycroft clinks his glass to John’s, gladly. He does not say why, and neither does John. They have never had to. 

They share a look, and John’s eyes are, as ever, electric. 

Mycroft feels a smile threaten his lips as well. John is right, _not dead yet_ – and they should celebrate that fact. 

Every single day.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
